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THE 

VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER 


BY 


KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  KATE  DOUGLAS    RIGGS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Hougliton  &  Co. 


T\EAR  OLD  APPLE-TREE,  under  whose 
gnarled  branches  these  stories  were 
written,  to  you  I  dedicate  the  book.  My 
head  was  so  close  to  you,  who  can  tell  from 
whence  the  thoughts  came  ?  I  only  know 
that  when  all  the  other  trees  in  the  orchard 
were  barren,  there  were  always  stories  to 
be  found  under  your  branches,  and  so  it  is 
our  joint  book,  dear  apple-tree.  Your  pink 
blossoms  have  fallen  on  the  page  as  I 
wrote;  your  ruddy  fruit  has  dropped  into 
my  lap  ;  the  sunshine  streamed  through  your 
leaves  and  tipped  my  pencil  with  gold.  T7ie 
birds  singing  in  your  boughs  may  have  lent 
a  sweet  note  here  and  there;  and  do  you 
remember  the  day  when  the  gentle  shower 
came  ?  We  just  curled  the  closer,  and  you 
and  I  and  the  sky  all  cried  together  while 
we  wrote  "  The  Fore-Room  Rug." 

It  should  be  a  lovely  book,  dear  apple- 
tree,  but  alas !  it  is  not  altogether  that,  be 
cause  I  am  not  so  simple  as  you,  and  because 
I  have  strayed  farther  away  from  the  heart 
of  Mother  Nature. 

KATE  DOUGLAS  WIG  GIN. 

"  Qwllcote,"  Hollis,  Maine, 
August  12,  1895. 


M11986 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

THE  VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER       ....  1 

TOM  o'  THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS          ...  31 

THE  NOONING  TREE 55 

THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG 95 

A  VILLAGE  STRADIVARIUS 123 

THE  EVENTFUL  TRIP  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  CRY  195 


THE  VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER. 


THE  VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER. 


IT  stood  on  the  gentle  slope  of  a  hill, 
the  old  gray  house,  with  its  weather-beaten 
clapboards  and  its  roof  of  ragged  shingles. 
It  was  in  the  very  lap  of  the  road,  so  that 
the  stage-driver  could  almost  knock  on  the 
window  pane  without  getting  down  from  his 
seat,  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he 
brought  "  old  Mis'  Bascom  "  a  parcel  from 
Saco. 

Humble  and  dilapidated  as  it  was,  it  was 
almost  beautiful  in  the  springtime,  when 
the  dandelion-dotted  turf  grew  close  to  the 
great  stone  steps ;  or  in  the  summer,  when 
the  famous  Bascom  elm  cast  its  graceful 
shadow  over  the  front  door.  The  elm, 
indeed,  was  the  only  object  that  ever  did 
cast  its  shadow  there.  Lucinda  Bascom 
said  her  "  front  door  V  entry  never  hed  ben 
used  except  for  fun'rals,  V  she  was  goin'  to 
keep  it  nice  for  that  purpose,  '11'  not  get  it 
all  tracked  up." 


4  THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

She  was  sitting  now  where  she  had  sat 
for  thirty  years.  Her  high-backed  rocker, 
with  its  cushion  of  copperplate  patch  and  its 
crocheted  tidy,  stood  always  by  a  southern 
window  that  looked  out  on  the  river.  The 
river  was  a  sheet  of  crystal,  as  it  poured 
over  the  darn  ;  a  rushing,  roaring  torrent  of 
foaming  white,  as  it  swept  under  the  bridge 
and  fought  its  way  between  the  rocky  cliffs 
beyond,  sweeping,  swirling,  eddying,  in  its 
narrow  channel,  pulsing  restlessly  into  the 
ragged  fissures  of  its  shores,  and  leaping 
with  a  tempestuous  roar  into  the  Witches' 
Eel-pot,  a  deep  wooded  gorge  cleft  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  granite  bank. 

But  Lucinda  Bascom  could  see  more  than 
the  river  from  her  favorite  window.  It  was 
a  much-traveled  road,  the  road  that  ran  past 
the  house  on  its  way  from  Liberty  Village 
to  Milliken's  Mills.  A  tottering  old  sign 
board,  on  a  verdant  triangle  of  turf,  directed 
you  over  Deacon  Chute's  hill  to  the  ''  Flag 
Medder  Road,"  and  from  thence  to  Liberty 
Centre ;  the  little  post-office  and  store, 
where  the  stage  stopped  twice  a  day,  was 
quite  within  eyeshot ;  so  were  the  public 
watering-trough,  Brigadier  Hill,  and,  behind 
the  ruins  of  an  old  mill,  the  wooded  path 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.  5 

that  led  to  the  Witches'  Eel-pot,  a  favorite 
walk  for  village  lovers.  This  was  all  on 
her  side  of  the  river.  As  for  the  bridge 
which  knit  together  the  two  tiny  villages, 
nobody  could  pass  over  that  without  being 
seen  from  the  Bascoms'.  The  rumble  of 
wheels  generally  brought  a  family  party  to 
the  window,  —  Jot  Bascom's  wife  (she  that 
was  Diadema  Dennett),  Jot  himself,  if  he 
were  in  the  house,  little  Jot,  and  grandpa 
Bascom,  who  looked  at  the  passers-by  with 
a  vacant  smile  parting  his  thin  lips.  Old 
Mrs.  Bascom  herself  did  not  need  the 
rumble  of  wheels  to  tell  her  that  a  vehicle 
was  coming,  for  she  could  see  it  fully  ten 
minutes  before  it  reached  the  bridge, — at 
the  very  moment  it  appeared  at  the  crest  of 
Saco  Hill,  where  strangers  pulled  up  their 
horses,  on  a  clear  day,  and  paused  to  look 
at  Mount  Washington,  miles  away  in  the 
distance.  Tory  Hill  and  Saco  Hill  met  at 
the  bridge,  and  just  there,  too,  the  river  road 
began  its  shady  course  along  the  east  side 
of  the  stream :  in  view  of  all  which  "  old 
Mis'  Bascom's  settin'-room  winder"  might 
well  be  called  the  "Village  Watch-Tower," 
when  you  consider  further  that  she  had 
moved  only  from  her  high-backed  rocker  to 


6  THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

her  bed,  and  from  her  bed  to  her  rocker, 
for  more  than  thirty  years,  —  ever  since 
that  July  day  when  her  husband  had  had  a 
sun-stroke  while  painting  the  meeting-house 
steeple,  and  her  baby  Jonathan  had  been 
thereby  hastened  into  a  world  not  in  the 
least  ready  to  receive  him. 

She  could  not  have  lived  without  that 
window,  she  would  have  told  you,  nor  with 
out  the  river,  which  had  lulled  her  to  sleep 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  It  was  in 
the  south  chamber  upstairs  that  she  had 
been  born.  Her  mother  had  lain  there  and 
listened  to  the  swirl  of  the  water,  in  that 
year  when  the  river  was  higher  than  the 
oldest  inhabitant  had  ever  seen  it,  —  the 
year  when  the  covered  bridge  at  the  Mills 
had  been  carried  away,  and  when  the  one  at 
the  Falls  was  in  hourly  danger  of  succumb 
ing  to  the  force  of  the  freshet. 

All  the  men  in  both  villages  were  work 
ing  on  the  river,  strengthening  the  dam, 
bracing  the  bridge,  and  breaking  the  jams 
of  logs  ;  and  with  the  parting  of  the  boom, 
the  snapping  of  the  bridge  timbers,  the 
crashing  of  the  logs  against  the  rocks,  and 
the  shouts  of  the  river-drivers,  the  little  Lu- 
cinda  had  come  into  the  world.  Some  one 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.  7 

had  gone  for  the  father,  and  had  found  him 
on  the  river,  where  he  had  been  since  day 
break,  drenched  with  the  storm,  blown  from 
his  dangerous  footing  time  after  time,  but 
still  battling  with  the  great  heaped-up  masses 
of  logs,  wrenching  them  from  one  another's 
grasp,  and  sending  them  down  the  swollen 
stream. 

Finally  the  jam  broke ;  and  a  cheer  of 
triumph  burst  from  the  excited  men,  as  the 
logs,  freed  from  their  bondage,  swept  down 
the  raging  flood,  on  and  ever  on  in  joyous 
liberty,  faster  and  faster,  till  they  encoun 
tered  some  new  obstacle,  when  they  heaped 
themselves  together  again,  like  puppets  of 
Fate,  and  were  beaten  by  the  waves  into 
another  helpless  surrender. 

With  the  breaking  of  the  jam,  one  dead 
monarch  of  the  forest  leaped  into  the  air 
as  if  it  had  been  shot  from  a  cannon's 
mouth,  and  lodged  between  two  jutting 
peaks  of  rock  high  on  the  river  bank. 
Presently  another  log  was  dashed  against 
it,  but  rolled  off  and  hurried  down  the 
stream ;  then  another,  and  still  another ; 
but  no  force  seemed  enough  to  drive  the 
giant  from  its  intrenched  position. 

"  Hurry  on  clown  to  the  next  jam,  Raish, 


8  THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

and  let  it  alone,"  cried  the  men.  "  Mebbe 
it  '11  git  washed  off  in  the  night,  and  anyhow 
you  can't  budge  it  with  no  kind  of  a  tool 
we  've  got  here." 

Then  from  the  shore  came  a  boy's  voice 
calling,  "There  's  a  baby  up  to  your 
house  1 "  And  the  men  repeated  in  stento 
rian  tones,  "  Baby  up  to  your  house,  Raish  ! 
Leggo  the  log  ;  you  're  wanted  ! 

"Boy  or  girl?"  shouted  the  young  fa 
ther. 

"  Girl !  "  came  back  the  answer  above  the 

roar  of  the  river. 

Whereupon  Raish  Dunnell  steadied  him 
self  with  his  pick  and  taking  a  hatchet  from 
his  belt  cut  a  rude  letter  "  L  "  on  the  side  of 
the  stranded  log. 

"  L  's  for  Lucindy,"  he  laughed.  4  Now 
you  log,  if  you  git 's  fur  as  Saco,  drop  in 
to  my  wife's  folks  and  tell  'em  the  baby's 

name." 

There  had  not  been  such  a  freshet  for 
years  before,  and  there  had  never  been  one 
since;  so,  as  the  quiet  seasons  went  by, 
"Lucindy's  log"  was  left  in  peace,  the 
columbines  blooming  all  about  it,  the  hare 
bells  hanging  their  heads  of  delicate  blue 
among  the  rocks  that  held  it  in  place,  the 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.  9 

birds  building  their  nests  in  the  knot-holes 
of  its  withered  side. 

Seventy  years  had  passed,  and  on  each 
birthday,  from  the  time  when  she  was  only 
"  Raish  Dunnell's  little  Lou,"  to  the  years 
when  she  was  Lucinda  Bascom,  wife  and 
mother,  she  had  wandered  down  by  the 
river  side,  and  gazed,  a  little  superstitiously 
perhaps,  on  the  log  that  had  been  marked 
with  an  "L"  on  the  morning  she  was  born. 
It  had  stood  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  ele 
ments  bravely,  but  now  it  was  beginning, 
like  Lucinda,  to  show  age.  Its  back  was 
bent,  like  hers;  its  face  was  seamed  and 
wrinkled,  like  her  own ;  and  the  village 
lovers  who  looked  at  it  from  the  opposite 
bank  wondered  if,  after  all,  it  would  hold 
out  as  long  as  "old  Mis'  Bascom." 

She  held  out  bravely,  old  Mrs.  Bascom, 
though  she  was  "all  skin,  bones,  and 
tongue,"  as  the  neighbors  said ;  for  no 
body  needed  to  go  into  the  Bascoms'  to 
brighten  up  aunt  Lucinda  a  bit,  or  take 
her  the  news ;  one  went  in  to  get  a  bit  of 
brightness,  and  to  hear  the  news. 

"I  should  get  lonesome,  I  s'pose,"  she 
was  wont  to  say,  "  if  it  wa'n't  for  the  way 
this  house  is  set,  and  this  chair,  and  this 


10          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

winder,  'n'  all.  Men  folks  used  to  build 
some  o'  the  houses  up  in  a  lane,  or  turn 
'em  back  or  side  to  the  road,  so  the  women 
folks  could  n't  see  any  thin'  to  keep  their 
minds  off  their  churnin'  or  dish-washin' ; 
but  Aaron  Dunnell  hed  somethin'  else  to 
think  about,  'n'  that  was  himself,  first,  last, 
and  all  the  time.  His  store  was  down  to 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  'n'  when  he  come 
up  to  his  meals,  he  used  to  set  where  he 
could  see  the  door;  'n'  if  any  cust'mer 
come,  he  could  call  to  'em  to  wait  a  spell 
till  he  got  through  eatin'.  Land  !  I  can 
hear  him  now,  yellin'  to  'em,  with  his  mouth 
full  of  victuals !  They  hed  to  wait  till  he 
got  good  'n'  ready,  too.  There  wa'n't  so 
much  comp'tition  in  business  then  as  there 
is  now,  or  he  'd  'a'  hed  to  give  up  eatin'  or 
hire  a  clerk.  .  .  .  I  've  always  felt  to  be 
thankful  that  the  house  was  on  this  rise 
o'  ground.  The  teams  hev  to  slow  up  on 
'count  o'  the  hill,  'n'  it  gives  me  consid'ble 
chance  to  see  folks  'n'  what  they  've  got  in 
the  back  of  the  wagon,  'n'  one  thing  'n' 
other.  .  .  .  The  neighbors  is  continually 
com  in'  in  here  to  talk  about  things  that 's 
goin'  on  in  the  village.  I  like  to  hear  'em, 
but  land !  they  can't  tell  me  nothin' ! 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          11 

They  often  say,  'For  massy  sakes,  Lucindy 
Bascom,  how  d'  you  know  that?'  4Why,' 
says  I  to  them,  4 1  don't  ask  no  questions, 
V  folks  don't  tell  me  no  lies ;  I  just  set  in 
my  winder,  'n'  put  two  V  two  together,  — 
that's  all  I  do.'  I  ain't  never  ben  in  a 
playhouse,  but  I  don't  suppose  the  play 
actors  git  down  off  the  platform  on  t'  the 
main  floor  to  explain  to  the  folks  what 
they've  ben  doin',  do  they?  I  expect,  if 
folks  can't  understand  their  draymas  when 
they  're  actin'  of  'em  out,  they  have  to  go 
ignorant,  don't  they?  Well,  what  do  I 
want  with  explaining  when  everythin'  is 
acted  out  right  in  the  road  ?  " 

There  was  quite  a  gathering  of  neighbors 
at  the  Bascoms'  on  this  particular  July 
afternoon.  No  invitations  had  been  sent 
out,  and  none  were  needed.  A  common 
excitement  had  made  it  vital  that  people 
should  drop  in  somewhere,  and  speculate 
about  certain  interesting  matters  well  known 
to  be  going  on  in  the  community,  but  going 
on  in  such  an  underhand  and  secretive  fash 
ion  that  it  well-nigh  destroyed  one's  faith 
in  human  nature. 

The  sitting-room  door  was  open  into  the 
entry,  so  that  whatever  breeze  there  was  might 


12          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

come  in,  and  an  unusual  glimpse  of  the  new 
foreroom  rug  was  afforded  the  spectators. 
Everything  was  as  neat  as  wax,  for  Diadema 
was  a  housekeeper  of  the  type  fast  passing 
away.  The  great  coal  stove  was  enveloped 
in  its  usual  summer  wrapper  of  purple 
calico,  which,  tied  neatly  about  its  ebony 
neck  and  portly  waist,  gave  it  the  appear 
ance  of  a  buxom  colored  lady  presiding 
over  the  assembly.  The  kerosene  lamps 
stood  in  a  row  on  the  high,  narrow  man 
telpiece,  each  chimney  protected  from  the 
flies  by  a  brown  paper  bag  inverted  over 
its  head.  Two  plaster  Samuels  praying 
under  pink  mosquito  netting  adorned  the 
ends  of  the  shelf.  There  were  screens  at 
all  the  windows,  and  Diadema  fidgeted  ner 
vously  when  a  visitor  came  in  the  mosquito- 
netting  door,  for  fear  a  fly  should  sneak  in 
with  her. 

On  the  wall  were  certificates  of  member 
ship  in  the  Missionary  Society;  a  picture 
of  Maidens  welcoming  Washington  in  the 
Streets  of  Alexandria,  in  a  frame  of  cucum 
ber  seeds  ;  and  an  interesting  document  set 
ting  forth  the  claims  of  the  Dunnell  family 
as  old  settlers  long  before  the  separation  of 
Maine  from  Massachusetts,  —  the  fact  be- 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          13 

ing  established  by  an  obituary  notice  read 
ing,  "  In  Saco,  December  1791,  Dorcas, 
daughter  of  Abiathar  Dimnell,  two  months 
old  of  Fits  unbaptized." 

"  He  may  be  goin'  to  marry  Eunice,  and 
he  may  not,"  observed  Almira  Berry ; 
"  though  what  she  wants  of  Reuben  Hobson 
is  more  '11  I  can  make  out.  I  never  see 
a  widower  straighten  up  as  he  has  this  last 
year.  I  guess  he 's  been  lookin'  round 
pretty  lively,  but '  could  n't  find  anybody 
that  was  fool  enough  to  give  him  any  en 
couragement." 

"Mebbe  she  wants  to  get  married,"  said 
Hannah  Sophia,  in  a  tone  that  spoke  vol 
umes.  "  When  Parson  Perkins  come  to 
this  parish,  one  of  his  first  calls  was  on 
Eunice  Emery.  He  always  talked  like  the 
book  o'  Revelation  ;  so  says  he,  '  Have  you 
got  your  weddin'  garment  on,  Miss  Em 
ery  ? '  says  he.  '  No,'  says  she,  '  but  I  've 
ben  tryin'  to  these  twenty  years.'  She  was 
always  full  of  her  jokes,  Eunice  was !  " 

"  The  Emerys  was  always  a  humorous 
family,"  remarked  Diadema,  as  she  anni 
hilated  a  fly  with  a  newspaper.  "  Old  Silas 
Emery  was  an  awful  humorous  man.  He 
used  to  live  up  on  the  island ;  and  there 


14          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

come  a  freshet  one  year,  and  lie  said  he 
got  his  sofy  'n'  chairs  off,  anyhow!  That 
was  just  his  jokin'.  He  had  n't  a  sign  of 
a  sofy  in  the  house ;  't  was  his  wife  Sophy 
he  meant,  she  that  was  Sophy  Swett.  Then 
another  time,  when  I  was  a  little  mite  of 
a  thing  runnin'  in  'n'  out  o'  his  yard,  he 
caught  holt  o'  me,  and  says  he,  4  You  'd 
better  take  care,  sissy ;  when  I  kill  you  and 
two  more,  thet  '11  be  three  children  I  Ve 
killed!'  Land!  you  couldn't  drag  me  in 
side  that  yard  for  years  afterwards.  .  .  . 
There !  she  's  got  a  fire  in  the  cook-stove ; 
there's  a  stream  o'  smoke  comin'  out  o' 
the  kitchen  chimbley.  I  'm  willin'  to  bet 
my  new  rug  she 's  goin'  to  be  married  to 
night!  " 

"  Mebbe  she 's  makin'  jell',"  suggested 
Hannah  Sophia. 

"  Jell' !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Jot  scornfully. 
"Do  you  s'pose  Eunice  Emery  would  build 
up  a  fire  in  the  middle  o'  the  afternoon  V 
go  to  makin'  jell',  this  hot  day  ?  Besides, 
there  ain't  a  currant  gone  into  her  house 
this  week,  as  I  happen  to  know." 

"  It  's  a  dretf ul  thick  year  for  fol'age," 
mumbled  grandpa  Bascom,  appearing  in  the 
door  with  his  vacant  smile.  "  I  declare, 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          15 

some  o'  the  maples  looks  like  balls  in  the 
air." 

"  That 's  the  twentieth  time  he  's  hed  that 
over  since  mornin',''  said  Diadema.  "  Here, 
father,  take  your  hat  off  V  set  in  the  kitchen 
door  'n'  shell  me  this  mess  o'  peas.  Now 
think  smart,  'n'  put  the  pods  in  the  basket 
'n'  the  peas  in  the  pan  ;  don't  you  mix  'em." 

The  old  man  hung  his  hat  on  the  back  of 
the  chair,  took  the  pan  in  his  trembling  hands, 
and  began  aimlessly  to  open  the  pods,  while 
he  chuckled  at  the  hens  that  gathered  round 
the  doorstep  when  they  heard  the  peas  rat 
tling  in  the  pan. 

"  Reuben  needs  a  wife  bad  enough,  if  that 's 
all,"  remarked  the  Widow  Buzzell,  as  one 
who  had  given  the  matter  some  considera 
tion. 

"  I  should  think  he  did,"  rejoined  old  Mrs. 
Bascom.  "Those  children  'bout  git  their 
livin'  off  the  road  in  summer,  from  the  time 
the  dand'lion  greens  is  ready  for  diggin'  till 
the  blackb'ries  'n'  choke-cherries  is  gone. 
Diademy  calls  'em  in  'n'  gives  'em  a  cooky 
every  time  they  go  past,  '11'  they  eat  as  if 
they  was  famished.  Rube  Hobson  never  was 
any  kind  of  a  pervider,  'n'  he  's  cousid'able 
snug  besides." 


16          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

"  He  ain't  goin'  to  better  himself  much," 
said  Almira.  "  Eunice  Emery  ain't  fit  to 
housekeep  for  a  cat.  The  pie  she  took  to  the 
pie  supper  at  the  church  was  so  tough  that 
even  Deacon  Dyer  could  n't  eat  it ;  and  the 
boys  got  holt  of  her  doughnuts,  and  declared 
they  was  goin'  fishin'  next  day  V  use  'em 
for  sinkers.  She  lives  from  hand  to  mouth, 
Eunice  Emery  does.  She  's  about  as  much 
of  a  doshy  as  Rube  is.  She  '11  make  tea  that 's 
strong  enough  to  bear  up  an  egg,  most,  and 
eat  her  doughnuts  with  it  three  times  a  day 
rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  walk  out  to 
the  meat  or  the  fish  cart.  I  know  for  a  fact 
she  don't  make  riz  bread  once  a  year." 

"  Mebbe  her  folks  likes  buttermilk  bread 
best ;  some  do,"  said  the  Widow  Buzzell. 
"  My  husband  always  said,  give  him  butter 
milk  bread  to  work  on.  He  used  to  say  my 
riz  bread  was  so  light  he  'd  hev  to  tread  on 
it  to  keep  it  anywheres  ;  but  when  you  'd  eat 
buttermilk  bread  he  said  you  'd  got  somethin' 
that  stayed  by  you  ;  you  knew  where  it  was 
every  time.  .  .  .  For  massy  sake !  there  's  the 
stage  stoppin'  at  the  Hobsons'  door.  I  won 
der  if  Rube's  first  wife's  mother  has  come 
from  Moderation  ?  If  't  is,  they  must  'a' 
made  up  their  quarrel,  for  there  was  a  time 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          17 

she  wouldn't  step  foot  over  that  doorsill. 
She  must  be  goin'  to  stay  some  time,  for 
there 's  a  trunk  on  the  back  o'  the  stage.  .  . . 
No,  there  ain't  nobody  gettin'  out.  Land, 
Hannah  Sophia,  don't  push  me  clean  through 
the  glass !  It  beats  me  why  they  make  win 
ders  so  small  that  three  people  can't  look  out 
of  'em  without  crowdin'.  Ain't  that  a  wash- 
boiler  he's  handin'  down?  Well,  it's  a 
mercy ;  he  's  ben  borrowin'  long  enough  ! ' 

"  What  goes  on  after  dark  I  ain't  respon 
sible  for,"  commented  old  Mrs.  Bascom, 
"  but  no  new  wash-boiler  has  gone  into  Rube 
Hobson's  door  in  the  daytime  for  many  a 
year,  and  I  '11  be  bound  it  means  some  thin'. 
There  goes  a  broom,  too.  Much  sweepin' 
he  '11  get  out  o'  Eunice ;  it 's  a  slick  V  a 
promise  with  her !  " 

"  When  did  you  begin  to  suspicion  this, 
Diademy  ?  "  asked  Almira  Berry.  "  I  've  got 
as  much  faculty  as  the  next  one,  but  anybody 
that  lives  on  the  river  road  has  just  got  to 
give  up  knowin'  anything.  You  can't  keep 
runnin'  to  the  store  every  day,  and  if  you 
could  you  don't  find  out  much  nowadays. 
Bill  Peters  don't  take  no  more  interest  in  his 
neighbors  than  a  cow  does  in  election." 
"  I  can't  get  mother  Bascom  to  see  it  as  I 


18          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

do,"  said  Diadema,  "  but  for  one  thing  she  's 
ben  carryin'  home  bundles  'bout  every  other 
night  for  a  month,  though  she  's  ben  too 
smart  to  buy  anythin'  here  at  this  store.  She 
had  Packard's  horse  to  go  to  Saco  last  week. 
When  she  got  home,  jest  at  dusk,  she  drove 
int'  the  barn,  'n'  bimeby  Pitt  Packard  come 
to  git  his  horse,  —  't  was  her  own  buggy  she 
went  with.  She  looked  over  here  when 
she  went  int'  the  house,  'n'  she  ketched  my 
eye,  though  't  was  half  a  mile  away,  so  she 
never  took  a  thing  in  with  her,  but  soon  as  't 
was  dark  she  made  three  trips  out  to  the  barn 
with  a  lantern,  'n'  any  fool  could  tell  't  her 
arms  was  full  o'  pa'cels  by  the  way  she  car 
ried  the  lantern.  The  Hobsons  and  the 
Ernerys  have  married  with  one  another  more 
'n  once,  as  fur  as  that  goes.  I  declare,  if  I 
was  goin'  to  get  married  I  should  want  to  be 
relation  to  somebody  besides  my  own  folks." 
"  The  reason  I  can't  hardly  credit  it,"  said 
Hannah  Sophia,  "  is  because  Eunice  never 
had  a  beau  in  her  life,  that  I  can  remember 
of.  Cyse  Higgins  set  up  with  her  for  a  spell, 
but  it  never  amounted  to  nothin'.  It  seems 
queer,  too,  for  she  was  always  so  fond  o'  see- 
in'  men  folks  round  that  when  Pitt  Packard 
was  shinglin'  her  barn  she  used  to  go  out 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          19 

nights  V  rip  some  o'  the  shingles  off,  so  't 
he  'cl  hev  more  days'  work  on  it." 

"  I  always  said  't  was  she  that  begun  on 
Rube  Hobson,  not  him  on  her,"  remarked 
the  Widow  Buzzell.  "  Their  land  joinin' 
made  courtin'  come  dretf ul  handy.  His  crit 
ters  used  to  git  in  her  field  'bout  every  other 
day  (I  always  suspicioned  she  broke  the  fence 
down  herself),  and  then  she  'd  hev  to  go  over 
and  git  him  to  drive  'em  out.  She  's  wed  his 
onion  bed  for  him  two  summers,  as  I  happen 
to  know,  for  I  've  been  ou'  doors  more  '11 
common  this  summer,  tryin'  to  fetch  my  con 
stitution  up.  Diademy,  don't  you  want  to 
look  out  the  back  way  V  see  if  Rube  's  come 
home  yet  ?  " 

"  He  ain't,"  said  old  Mrs.  Bascom,  "  so 
you  need  n't  look  ;  can't  you  see  the  curtains 
is  all  down  ?  He  's  gone  up  to  the  Mills,  V 
it 's  my  opinion  he  's  gone  to  speak  to  the 
minister." 

"  He  hed  somethin'  in  the  back  o'  the 
wagon  covered  up  with  an  old  linen  lap 
robe  ;  't  ain't  at  all  likely  he  'd  'a'  hed  that  if 
he'd  ben  goin'  to  the  minister's,"  objected 
Mrs.  Jot. 

"  Anybody  'd  think  you  was  born  yester 
day,  to  hear  you  talk,  Diademy,"  retorted 


20          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

her  mother-in-law.  "  When  you  've  set  in 
one  spot 's  long  's  I  hev,  p'raps  you  '11  hev 
the  use  o'  your  faculties  !  Men  folks  has 
more  'n  one  way  o'  gettin1  married,  'specially 
when  they  're  ashamed  of  it.  ...  Well,  I 
vow,  there  's  the  little  Hobson  girls  comin'  out 
o'  the  door  this  minute,  'n'  they  're  all  dressed 
up,  and  Mote  don't  seem  to  be  with  'em." 

Every  woman  in  the  room  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  Diadema  removed  her  murderous  eye 
from  a  fly  which  she  had  been  endeavoring 
to  locate  for  some  moments. 

"  I  guess  they  're  goin'  up  to  the  church 
to  meet  their  father  'n'  Eunice,  poor  little 
things,"  ventured  the  Widow  Buzzell. 

"  P'raps  they  be,"  said  old  Mrs.  Bascom 
sarcastically  ;  "  p'raps  they  be  goin'  to  church, 
takin'  a  three-quart  tin  pail  V  a  brown  paper 
bundle  along  with  'em.  .  .  .  They  're  comin' 
over  the  bridge,  just  as  I  s'posed.  .  .  .  Now, 
if  they  come  past  this  house,  you  head  'em 
off,  Almiry,  'n'  see  if  you  can  git  some  satis 
faction  out  of  'em.  .  .  .  They  ain't  hardly  old 
enough  to  hold  their  tongues." 

An  exciting  interview  soon  took  place  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  and  Almira  recntered 
the  room  with  the  expression  of  one  who  had 
penetrated  the  inscrutable  and  solved  the 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.         21 

riddle  of  the  Sphinx.  She  had  been  vouch 
safed  one  of  those  gleams  of  light  in  dark 
ness  which  almost  dazzle  the  beholder. 

"That's  about  the  confirmingest  thing 
I  've  heern  yet !  "  she  ejaculated,  as  she  took 
off  her  shaker  bonnet.  "  They  say  they  're 
goin'  up  to  their  aunt  Hitty's  to  stay  two 
days.  They  're  dressed  in  their  best,  clean 
to  the  skin,  for  I  looked  ;  V  it 's  their  night- 
gownds  they  've  got  in  the  bundle.  They 
say  little  Mote  has  gone  to  Union  to  stop  all 
night  with  his  uncle  Abijah,  V  that  leaves 
Rube  all  alone,  for  the  Smith  girl  that  does 
his  chores  is  home  sick  with  the  hives.  And 
what  do  you  s'pose  is  in  that  pail  ?  Fruit 
cake^  —  that 's  what 't  is,  no  more  V  no  less ! 
I  knowed  that  Smith  girl  did  n't  bake  it, 
'n'  so  I  asked  'em,  'n'  they  said  Miss  Emery 
give  it  to  'em.  There  was  two  little  round 
try-cakes,  baked  in  muffin-rings.  Eunice 
hed  took  some  o'  the  batter  out  of  a  big 
loaf  'n'  baked  it  to  see  how  it  was  goin'  to 
turn  out.  That  means  wedding-cake,  or  I  'm 
mistaken  !  " 

"  There  ain't  no  gittin'  round  tha,t,"  agreed 
the  assembled  company,  "  now,  is  there,  Mis' 
Bascom?" 

Old  Mrs.  Bascom  wet  her  finger,  smoothed 


22          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

the  parting  of  her  false  front,  and  looked 
inscrutable. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  're  so  secret,"  ob 
jected  Diadema. 

"  I  Ve  got  my  opinions,  and  I  've  had  'em 
some  time,"  observed  the  good  lady.  "  I 
don't  know  's  I  'm  bound  to  tell  'em  and 
have  'em  held  up  to  ridicule.  Let  the  veal 
hang,  I  say.  If  any  one  of  us  is  right,  we  '11 
all  know  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  all  any  of  us  has  got  to  judge 
from,  is  appearances,"  said  Diadema,  "  and 
how  you  can  twist  'em  one  way,  and  us 
another,  stumps  me  I  " 

"  Perhaps  I  see  more  appearances  than 
you  do,"  retorted  her  mother-in-law.  "  Some 
folks  mistakes  all  they  see  for  all  there  is. 
I  was  reading  a  detective  story  last  week. 
It  seems  there  was  an  awful  murder  in 
Schenectady,  and  a  mother  and  two  children 
was  found  dead  in  one  bed,  with  bullet  holes 
in  their  heads.  The  husband  was  away  on 
business,  and  there  was  n't  any  near  neigh 
bors  to  hear  her  screech.  Well,  the  detec 
tives  come  from  far  and  from  near,  and 
begun  to  work  up  the  case.  One  of  'em 
thought  'twas  the  husband,  —  though  he  set 
such  store  by  his  wife  he  went  ravin'  crazy 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

when  he  heard  she  was  dead,  —  one  of  'em 
laid  it  on  the  children,  —  though  they  was 
both  under  six  years  old ;  and  one  decided 
it  was  suicide,  —  though  the  woman  was  a 
church  member  and  did  n't  know  how  to  fire 
a  gun  off,  besides.  And  then  there  come 
along  a  detective  younger  and  smarter  than 
all  the  rest,  and  says  he, '  If  all  you  bats  have 
seen  everything  you  can  see,  I  guess  I  '11  take 
a  look  round,'  says  he.  Sure  enough,  there 
was  a  rug  with  '  Welcome '  on  it  layin'  in 
front  of  the  washstand,  and  when  he  turned 
it  up  he  found  an  elegant  diamond  stud  with 
a  man's  full  name  and  address  on  the  gold 
part.  He  took  a  train  and  went  right  to 
the  man's  house.  He  was  so  taken  by  sur 
prise  (he  had  n't  missed  the  stud,  for  he  had 
a  full  set  of  'em)  that  he  owned  right  up 
and  confessed  the  murder." 

"  I  don't  see  as  that 's  got  anything  to  do 
with  this  case,"  said  Diadema. 

"  It 's  got  this  much  to  do  with  it,"  replied 
old  Mrs.  Bascom,  "that  perhaps  you  've 
looked  all  round  the  room  and  seen  every 
thing  you  had  eyes  to  see,  and  perhaps  I  've 
had  wit  enough  to  turn  up  the  rug  in  front 
o'  the  washstand." 

"  Whoever   he   marries  now,    Mis'    Bas- 


24          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

com  '11  have  to  say 't  was  the  one  she  meant," 
laughed  the  Widow  Buzzell. 

"  I  never  was  caught  cheatin'  yet,  and  if 
I  live  till  Saturday  I  shall  be  seventy-one 
years  old,"  said  the  old  lady  with  some  heat. 
"  Hand  me  Jot's  lead  pencil,  Diademy,  and 
that  old  envelope  on  the  winder  sill.  I  '11 
write  the  name  I  think  of,  and  shut  it  up 
in  the  old  Bible.  My  hand  's  so  stiff  to-day 
I  can't  hardly  move  it,  but  I  guess  I  can 
make  it  plain  enough  to  satisfy  you." 

"  That 's  fair  'n'  square,"  said  Hannah 
Sophia,  "  and  for  my  part  I  hope  it  ain't 
Eunice,  for  I  like  her  too  well.  What  they  're 
goin'  to  live  on  is  more  '11  I  can  see.  Add 
nothin'  to  nothin'  'n'  you  git  nothin',  — that 's 
arethmetic !  He  ain't  hed  a  cent  o'  ready 
money  sence  he  failed  up  four  years  ago, 
'thout  it  was  that  hundred  dollars  that  fell  to 
him  from  his  wife's  aunt.  Eunice  '11  hev 
her  hands  full  this  winter,  I  guess,  with  them 
three  hearty  children,  'n'  him  all  wheezed  up 
with  phthisic  from  October  to  April!  .  .  . 
Who's  that  comin'  down  Tory  Hill?  It  1 
Rube's  horse  'n'  Rube's  wagon,  but  it  don't 
look  like  Rube." 

"  Yes,  it  's  Rube ;  but  he  's  got  a  new 
Panama  hat,  V  he  's  hed  his  linen  dus- 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          25 

ter  .washed,"  said  old  Mrs.  Bascom.  .  .  . 
"  Now,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  that 
woman  with  a  stuck-up  hat  on  is  Eunice 
Emery?  It  ain't,  V  that  green  parasol 
don't  belong  to  this  village.  He  's  drivin' 
her  into  his  yard  !  .  .  .  Just  as  I  s'posed, 
it  's  that  little,  smirkin',  worthless  school 
teacher  up  to  the  Mills.  —  Don't  break  my 
neck,  Diademy  ;  can't  you  see  out  the  other 
winder  ?  —  Yes,  he  's  helpin'  her  out,  'n' 
showin'  her  in.  He  can't  'a'  ben  married 
more'n  ten  minutes,  for  he  's  goin'  clear  up 
the  steps  to  open  the  door  for  her  !  " 

"  Wait  'n'  see  if  he  takes  his  horse  out," 
said  Hannah  Sophia.  u  Mebbe  he  '11  drive 
her  back  in  a  few  minutes.  .  .  .  No,  he  's 
onhitched  !  .  .  .  There,  he  's  hangin'  up  the 
head-stall ! " 

"I  've  ben  up  in  the  attic  chamber," 
called  the  Widow  Buzzell,  as  she  descended 
the  stairs  ;  "  she  's  pulled  up  the  curtains,  and 
took  off  her  hat  right  in  front  o'  the  winder, 
's  bold  as  a  brass  kettle !  She  's  come  to 
stay  !  Ain't  that  Kube  Hobson  all  over,  — 
to  bring  another  woman  hit'  this  village  'stid 
o'  weedin'  one  of  'em  out  as  he  'd  oughter. 
He  ain't  got  any  more  public  sperit  than  a 
—  hedgehog,  'n'  never  had  !  " 


26          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

Almira  drew  on  her  mitts  excitedly,  tied 
on  her  shaker,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  I  'm  goiii'  over  to  Eunice's,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  'in  goin'  to  take  my  bottle  of  cam- 
phire.  I  should  n't  wonder  a  mite  if  I  found 
her  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  kitchen  floor. 
Nobody  need  tell  me  she  wa'n't  buildin' 
hopes." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,"  said  the  Widow 
Buzzell.  "  I  'd  like  to  see  with  my  own  eyes 
how  she  takes  it,  V  it  '11  be  too  late  to  tell 
if  I  wait  till  after  supper.  If  she  'd  ben 
more  open  with  me  V  ever  asked  for  my 
advice,  I  could  'a'  told  her  it  wa'n't  the  first 
time  Rube  Hobson  has  played  that  trick." 

"  I  'd  come  too  if  't  wa'n't  for  milkin', 
but  Jot  ain't  home  from  the  Centre,  and 
I  've  got  to  do  his  chores ;  come  in  as  you 
go  along  back,  will  you  ?  "  asked  Diadema. 

Hannah  Sophia  remained  behind,  prom 
ising  to  meet  them  at  the  post-office  and 
hear  the  news.  As  the  two  women  walked 
down  the  hill  she  drew  the  old  envelope 
from  the  Bible  and  read  the  wavering  words 
scrawled  upon  it  in  old  Mrs.  Bascom's  rheu 
matic  and  uncertain  hand,  — 

the  milikins  Mills  Teecher. 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          27 

"  Well,  Lucindy,  you  do  make  good  use 
o'  your  winder,"  she  exclaimed,  ubut  how 
you  pitched  on  anything  so  onlikely  as  her 
is  more'n  I  can  see." 

"  Just  because  't  was  onlikely.  A  man 's 
a  great  sight  likelier  to  do  an  onlikely  thing 
than  he  is  a  likely  one,  when  it  comes  to 
marryin'.  In  the  first  place,  Rube  sent  his 
children  to  school  up  to  the  Mills  'stid  of 
to  the  brick  schoolhouse,  though  he  had  to 
pay  a  little  something  to  get  'em  taken  in 
to  another  deestrick.  They  used  to  come 
down  at  night  with  their  hands  full  o'  'ward 
o'  merit  cards.  Do  you  s'pose  I  thought 
they  got  'em  for  good  behavior,  or  for  know- 
in'  their  lessons?  Then  aunt  Hitty  told 
me  some  question  or  other  Rube  had  asked 
examination  day.  Since  when  has  Rube 
Hobson  'tended  examinations,  thinks  I.  And 
when  I  see  the  girl,  a  red-and-white  paper 
doll  that  would  n't  know  whether  to  move 
the  churn-dasher  up  V  down  or  round  V 
round,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  bein'  a  man 
he  'd  take  her  for  certain,  and  not  his  next- 
door  neighbor  of  a  sensible  age  and  a  house 
'11'  farm  'n'  cow  'n'  buggy !  " 

"  Sure  enough,"  agreed  Hannah  Sophia, 
"  though  that  don't  account  for  Eunice's 


28          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

queer  actions,  'n'  the  pa'cels  V  the  fruit 
cake." 

"When  I  make  out  a  case,"  observed 
Mrs.  Bascom  modestly,  "  I  ain't  one  to 
leave  weak  spots  in  it.  If  I  guess  at  all,  I 
go  all  over  the  ground  'n'  stop  when  I  git 
through.  Now,  sisters  or  no  sisters,  Mary- 
abby  Emery  ain't  spoke  to  Eunice  sence 
she  moved  to  Salem.  But  if  Eunice  has 
ben  bringin'  pa'cels  home,  Mary ab by  must 
'a'  paid  for  what  was  in  'em ;  and  if  she  's 
ben  bakin'  fruit  cake  this  hot  day,  why  Mary- 
abby  used  to  be  so  fond  o'  fruit  cake  her 
folks  were  afraid  she  'd  have  fits  'n'  die. 
I  shall  be  watchin'  here  as  usual  to-morrow 
mornin',  'n'  if  Maryabby  don't  drive  hit' 
Eunice's  yard  before  noon  I  won't  brag  any 
more  for  a  year  to  come." 

Hannah  Sophia  gazed  at  old  Mrs.  Bascom 
with  unstinted  admiration.  "  You  do  beat 
all,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  wish  I  could  stay  all 
night  'n'  see  how  it  turns  out,  but  Almiry  is 
just  comin'  over  the  bridge,  'n'  I  must  start 
'n'  meet  her.  Good-by.  I  'm  glad  to  see 
you  so  smart ;  you  always  look  slim,  but  I 
guess  you  '11  tough  it  out  's  long  's  the  rest 
of  us.  I  see  your  log  was  all  right,  last 
time  I  was  down  side  o'  the  river." 


THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER.          29 

"They  say  it  's  jest  goin'  to  break  in 
two  in  the  middle,  and  fall  into  the  river," 
cheerfully  responded  Lucinda.  "  They  say 
it  's  jest  hangin'  by  a  thread.  Well,  that 's 
what  they  've  ben  sayin'  about  me  these  ten 
years,  'n'  here  I  be  still  hangin' !  It  don't 
make  no  odds,  I  guess,  whether  it 's  a  thread 
or  a  rope  you  're  hangin'  by,  so  long  as  you 
hang." 

The  next  morning,  little  Mote  Hobson, 
who  had  stayed  all  night  with  his  uncle  in 
Union,  was  walking  home  by  the  side  of 
the  river.  He  strolled  along,  the  happy, 
tousle-headed,  barefooted  youngster,  eyes 
one  moment  on  the  trees  in  the  hope  of 
squirrels  and  birds'-nests,  the  next  on  the 
ground  in  search  of  the  first  blueberries. 
As  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  bit  of  shining 
quartz  to  add  to  the  collection  in  his  ragged 
trousers'  pockets  he  glanced  across  the  river, 
and  at  that  very  instant  Lucinda's  log  broke 
gently  in  twain,  rolled  down  the  bank, 
crumbling  as  it  went,  and,  dropping  in  like 
a  tired  child,  was  carried  peacefully  along 
on  the  river's  breast. 

Mote  walked  more  quickly  after  that. 
It  was  quite  a  feather  in  his  cap  to  see,  with 


30          THE    VILLAGE    WATCH-TOWER. 

his  own  eyes,  the  old  landmark  slip  from 
its  accustomed  place  and  float  down  the 
stream.  The  other  boys  would  miss  it  and 
say,  "  It 's  gone!  "  He  would  say,  "  I  saw  it 
go!" 

Grandpa  Bascom  was  standing  at  the  top 
of  the  hill.  His  white  locks  were  uncovered, 
and  he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  Baby  Jot, 
as  usual,  held  fast  by  his  shaking  hand,  for 
they  loved  each  other,  these  two.  The 
cruel  stroke  of  the  sun  that  had  blurred  the 
old  man's  brain  had  spared  a  blessed  some 
thing  in  him  that  won  the  healing  love  of 
children. 

"How  d'  ye,  Mote?"  he  piped  in  his 
feeble  voice.  "  They  say  Lmcindy  's  dead. 
.  .  .  Jot  says  she  is,  'n'  Diademy  says  she 
is,  'n'  I  guess  she  is.  ...  It  's  a  dretful 
thick  year  for  fol'age ;  .  .  .  some  o'  the 
maples  looks  like  balls  in  the  air." 

Mote  looked  in  at  the  window.  The 
neighbors  were  hurrying  to  and  fro.  Dia- 
dema  sat  with  her  calico  apron  up  to  her 
face,  sobbing ;  and  for  the  first  morning  in 
thirty  years,  old  Mrs.  Bascom's  high-backed 
rocker  was  empty,  and  there  was  no  one 
sitting  in  the  village  watch-tower. 


TOM  0'  THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 


TOM  O'  THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

THE  sky  is  a  shadowless  blue ;  the  noon 
day  sun  glows  fiercely ;  a  cloud  of  dust  rises 
from  the  burning  road  whenever  the  hot 
breeze  stirs  the  air,  or  whenever  a  farm 
wagon  creaks  along,  its  wheels  sinking  into 
the  deep  sand. 

In  the  distance,  where  the  green  of  the 
earth  joins  the  blue  of  the  sky,  gleams  the 
silver  line  of  a  river. 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  ground 
is  covered  with  blueberry  bushes ;  red  leaves 
peeping  among  green  ones;  bloom  of  blue 
fruit  hanging  in  full  warm  clusters,  — 
spheres  of  velvet  mellowed  by  summer  sun, 
moistened  with  crystal  dew,  spiced  with  fra 
grance  of  woods. 

In  among  the  blueberry  bushes  grow 
huckleberries,  "choky  pears,*'  and  black- 
snaps. 

Gnarled  oaks  and  stunted  pines  lift  them 
selves  out  of  the  wilderness  of  shrubs.  They 
look  dwarfed  and  gloomy,  as  if  Nature  had 


34         TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

been  an  untender  mother,  and  denied  them 
proper  nourishment. 

The  road  is  a  little-traveled  one,  and  fur 
rows  of  feathery  grasses  grow  between  the 
long,  hot,  sandy  stretches  of  the  wheel-ruts. 

The  first  goldenrod  gleams  among  the 
loose  stones  at  the  foot  of  the  alder  bushes. 
Whole  families  of  pale  butterflies,  just  out 
of  their  long  sleep,  perch  on  the  brilliant 
stalks  and  tilter  up  and  down  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Straggling  processions  of  woolly  brown 
caterpillars  wend  their  way  in  the  short 
grass  by  the  wayside,  where  the  wild  car 
rot  and  the  purple  bull-thistle  are  coming 
into  bloom. 

The  song  of  birds  is  seldom  heard,  and 
the  blueberry  plains  are  given  over  to  si 
lence  save  for  the  buzzing  of  gorged  flies, 
the  humming  of  bees,  and  the  chirping  of 
crickets  that  stir  the  drowsy  air  when  the 
summer  begins  to  wane. 

It  is  so  still  that  the  shuffle-shuffle  of 
a  footstep  can  be  heard  in  the  distance,  the 
tinkle  of  a  tin  pail  swinging  musically  to 
and  fro,  the  swish  of  an  alder  switch  crop 
ping  the  heads  of  the  roadside  weeds.  All 
at  once  a  voice  breaks  the  stillness.  Is  it 


TOM   0'    THE   BLUER  RY  PLAINS.         35 

a  child's,  a  woman's,  or  a  man's  ?     Neither, 
yet  all  three. 

"  I  'd  much  d'ruth-er  walk  in  the  bloom-in'  gy-ar-ding, 
An'  hear  the  whis-sle  of  the  jol-ly 


Everybody  knows  the  song,  and  everybody 
knows  the  cracked  voice.  The  master  of 
this  bit  of  silent  wilderness  is  coming  home  : 
it  is  Tom  o'  the  blueb'ry  plains. 

He  is  more  than  common  tall,  with  a 
sandy  beard,  and  a  mop  of  tangled  hair 
straggling  beneath  his  torn  straw  hat.  A 
square  of  wet  calico  drips  from  under  the 
back  of  the  hat.  His  gingham  shirt  is  open 
at  the  throat,  showing  his  tanned  neck  and 
chest.  Warm  as  it  is,  he  wears  portions  of 
at  least  three  coats  on  his  back.  His  high 
boots,  split  in  foot  and  leg,  are  mended  and 
spliced  and  laced  and  tied  on  with  bits  of 
shingle  rope.  He  carries  a  small  tin  pail  of 
molasses.  It  has  a  bail  of  rope,  and  a  bat 
tered  cover  with  a  knob  of  sticky  newspaper. 
Over  one  shoulder,  suspended  on  a  crooked 
branch,  hangs  a  bundle  of  basket  stuff,  — 
split  willow  withes  and  the  like  ;  over  the 
other  swings  a  decrepit,  bottomless,  three- 
legged  chair. 


db         TOM   0'    THE   BLUER  RY  PLAINS. 

I  call  him  the  master  of  the  plains,  but  in 
faith  he  had  no  legal  claim  to  the  title.  If 
he  owned  a  habitation  or  had  established 
a  home  on  any  spot  in  the  universe,  it  was 
because  no  man  envied  him  what  he  chose, 
and  no  man  grudged  him  what  he  took ;  for 
Tom  was  one  of  God's  fools,  a  foot-loose  pil 
grim  in  this  world  of  ours,  a  poor  addle- 
pated,  simple-minded,  harmless  creature,  — 
in  village  parlance,  a  "  softy." 

Mother  or  father,  sister  or  brother,  he 
had  none,  nor  ever  had,  so  far  as  any  one 
knew;  but  how  should  people  who  had  to 
work  from  sun-up  to  candlelight  to  get  the 
better  of  the  climate  have  leisure  to  dis 
cover  whether  or  no  Blueb'ry  Tom  had  any 
kin? 

At  some  period  in  an  almost  forgotten 
past  there  had  been  a  house  on  Tom's  par 
ticular  patch  of  the  plains.  It  had  long 
since  tumbled  into  ruins  and  served  for  fire 
wood,  and  even  the  chimney  bricks  had  dis 
appeared  one  by  one,  as  the  monotonous 
seasons  came  and  went. 

Tom  had  settled  himself  in  an  old  tool- 
shop,  corn-house,  or  rude  out-building  of 
some  sort  that  had  belonged  to  the  ruined 
cottage.  Here  he  had  set  up  his  house- 


TOM   0'    THE    BLUER RY  PLAINS.         37 

hold  gods;  and  since  no  one  else  had  ever 
wanted  a  home  in  this  dreary  tangle  of 
berry  bushes,  where  the  only  shade  came 
from  stunted  pines  that  flung  shriveled 
arms  to  the  sky  and  dropped  dead  cones 
to  the  sterile  earth,  here  he  remained  un 
molested. 

In  the  lower  part  of  the  hut  he  kept  his 
basket  stuff  and  his  collection  of  two-legged 
and  three-legged  chairs.  In  the  course  of 
evolution  they  never  sprouted  another  leg, 
those  chairs ;  as  they  were  given  to  him,  so 
they  remained.  The  upper  floor  served  for 
his  living-room,  and  was  reached  by  a  lad 
der  from  the  ground,  for  there  was  no  stair 
way  inside. 

No  one  had  ever  been  in  the  little  upper 
chamber.  When  a  passer-by  chanced  to  be 
think  him  that  Tom's  hermitage  was  close 
at  hand,  he  sometimes  turned  in  his  team 
by  a  certain  clump  of  white  birches  and 
drove  nearer  to  the  house,  intending  to  re 
mind  Tom  that  there  was  a  chair  to  willow- 
bottom  the  next  time  he  came  to  the  village. 
But  at  the  noise  of  the  wheels  Tom  drew 
in  his  ladder  ;  and  when  the  visitor  alighted 
and  came  within  sight,  it  was  to  find  the  in 
hospitable  host  standing  in  the  opening  of 


38          TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

the  second-story  window,  a  quaint  figure 
framed  in  green  branches,  the  ladder  be 
hind  him,  and  on  his  face  a  kind  of  im 
penetrable  dignity,  as  he  shook  his  head 
and  said,  "  Tom  ain't  ter  hum ;  Tom 's  gone 
to  Bonny  Eagle." 

There  was  something  impressive  about  this 
way  of  repelling  callers ;  it  was  as  effectual 
as  a  door  slammed  in  the  face,  and  yet  there 
was  a  sort  of  mendacious  courtesy  about  it. 
No  one  ever  cared  to  go  further ;  and  indeed 
there  was  no  mystery  to  tempt  the  curious, 
and  no  spoil  to  attract  the  mischievous  or 
malicious.  Any  one  could  see,  without  en 
tering,  the  straw  bed  in  the  far  corner,  the 
beams  piled  deep  with  red  and  white  oak 
acorns,  the  strings  of  dried  apples  and 
bunches  of  everlastings  hanging  from  the 
rafters,  and  the  half-finished  baskets  filled 
with  blown  bird's-eggs,  pine  cones,  and  peb 
bles. 

No  home  in  the  village  was  better  loved 
than  Tom's  retreat  in  the  blueberry  plains. 
Whenever  he  approached  it,  after  a  long 
day's  tramp,  when  he  caught  the  first  sight 
of  the  white  birches  that  marked  the  gate 
way  to  his  estate  and  showed  him  where  to 
turn  off  the  public  road  into  his  own  private 


TOM   0'    THE   ELUERRY  PLAINS.         39 

grounds,  he    smiled    a    broader  smile   than 
usual,  and  broke  into  his  well-known  song  : 

"  I  'd  much  d'ruth-er  walk  in  the  bloom-in'  gy-ar-ding, 
An'  hear  the  whis-sle  of  the  jol-ly 


Poor  Tom  could  never  catch  the  last  note. 
He  had  sung  the  song  for  more  than  forty 
years,  but  the  memory  of  this  tone  was  so 
blurred,  and  his  cherished  ideal  of  it  so  high 
(or  so  low,  rather),  that  he  never  managed 
to  reach  it. 

Oh,  if  only  summer  were  eternal  !  Who 
could  wish  a  better  supper  than  ripe  berries 
and  molasses  ?  Nor  was  there  need  of  sleep 
ing  under  roof  nor  of  lighting  candle  to  grope 
his  way  to  pallet  of  straw,  when  he  might 
have  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  arching  over 
him,  and  all  God's  stars  for  lamps,  and  for 
a  bed  a  horse  blanket  stretched  over  an  elas 
tic  couch  of  pine  needles.  There  were  two 
gaunt  pines  that  had  been  dropping  their 
polished  spills  for  centuries,  perhaps,  silently 
adding,  year  by  year,  another  layer  of  aro 
matic  springiness  to  poor  Tom's  bed.  Fling 
ing  his  tired  body  on  this  grateful  couch, 
burying  his  head  in  the  crushed  sweet  fern 
of  his  pillow  with  one  deep-drawn  sigh  of 


40         TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

pleasure,  —  there,  haunted  by  no  past  and 
harassed  by  no  future,  slept  God's  fool  as 
sweetly  as  a  child. 

Yes,  if  only  summer  were  eternal,  and 
youth  as  well ! 

But  when  the  blueberries  had  ripened 
summer  after  summer,  and  the  gaunt  pine- 
trees  had  gone  on  for  many  years  weaving 
poor  Tom's  mattress,  there  came  a  change  in 
the  aspect  of  things.  He  still  made  his  way 
to  the  village,  seeking  chairs  to  mend ;  but 
he  was  even  more  unkempt  than  of  old,  his 
tall  figure  was  bent,  and  his  fingers  trembled 
as  he  wove  the  willow  strands  in  and  out, 
and  over  and  under. 

There  was  little  work  to  do,  moreover,  for 
the  village  had  altogether  retired  from  busi 
ness,  and  was  no  longer  in  competition  with 
its  neighbors  :  the  dam  was  torn  away,  the 
sawmills  were  pulled  down  ;  husbands  and 
fathers  were  laid  in  the  churchyard,  sons  and 
brothers  and  lovers  had  gone  West,  and 
mothers  and  widows  and  spinsters  stayed 
on,  each  in  her  quiet  house  alone.  "  'T  ain't 
no  hardship  when  you  get  used  to  it,"  said 
the  Widow  Buzzell.  "  Land  sakes  !  a  lan 
tern  's  's  good  's  a  man  any  time,  if  you  only 
think  so,'  n'  't  ain't  half  so  much  trouble  to 
keep  it  filled  up !  " 


TOM   0'    THE  BLUER  RY  PLAINS.         41 

But  Tom  still  sold  a  basket  occasionally, 
and  the  children  always  gathered  about  him 
for  the  sake  of  hearing  him  repeat  his  well- 
worn  formula,  —  "Tom  allers  puts  two 
handles  on  baskets  :  one  to  take  'em  up  by, 
one  to  set  'em  down  by."  This  was  said  with 
a  beaming  smile  and  a  wise  shake  of  the 
head,  as  if  he  were  announcing  a  great  dis 
covery  to  an  expectant  world.  And  then  he 
would  lay  down  his  burden  of  basket  stuff, 
and,  sitting  under  an  apple-tree  in  some 
body's  side  yard,  begin  his  task  of  willow- 
bottoming  an  old  chair.  It  was  a  pretty 
sight  enough,  if  one  could  keep  back  the 
tears,  —  the  kindly,  simple  fellow  with  the 
circle  of  children  about  his  knees.  Never 
a  village  fool  without  a  troop  of  babies  at  his 
heels.  They  love  him,  too,  till  we  teach  them 
to  mock. 

When  he  was   younger,    he  would   sing, 

"  Rock-a-by,  baby,  on  the  treetop," 

and  dance  the  while,  swinging  his  unfinished 
basket  to  and  fro  for  a  cradle.  He  was  too 
stiff  in  the  joints  for  dancing  nowadays,  but 
he  still  sang  the  "  bloomin'  gy-ar-ding  "  when 
ever  they  asked  him,  particularly  if  some 
apple-cheeked  little  maid  would  say,  "  Please, 


42         TOM   0'    THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

Tom  !  "  He  always  laughed  then,  and,  pat 
ting  the  child's  hand,  said,  "  Pooty  gal,  — 
got  eyes !  "  The  youngsters  danced  with 
glee  at  this  meaningless  phrase,  just  as  their 
mothers  had  danced  years  before  when  it  was 
said  to  them. 

Summer  waned.  In  the  moist  places  the 
gentian  uncurled  its  blue  fringes  ;  purple  as 
ters  and  gay  Joe  Pye  waved  their  colors  by 
the  roadside  ;  tall  primroses  put  their  yellow 
bonnets  on,  and  peeped  over  the  brooks  to 
see  themselves;  and  the  dusty  pods  of  the 
milkweed  were  bursting  with  their  silky 
fluffs,  the  spinning  of  the  long  summer. 
Autumn  began  to  paint  the  maples  red  and 
the  elms  yellow,  for  the  early  days  of  Sep 
tember  brought  a  frost.  Some  one  remarked 
at  the  village  store  that  old  Blueb'ry  Tom 
must  not  be  suffered  to  stay  on  the  plains 
another  winter,  now  that  he  was  getting  so 
feeble,  —  not  if  the  "  seleckmen  "  had  to 
root  him  out  and  take  him  to  the  poor-farm. 
He  would  surely  starve  or  freeze,  and  his 
death  would  be  laid  at  their  door. 

Tom  was  interviewed.  Persuasion,  logic, 
sharp  words,  all  failed  to  move  him  one  jot 
or  tittle.  He  stood  in  his  castle  door,  with 
the  ladder  behind  him,  smiling,  always  smil- 


TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS.         43 

ing  (none  but  the  fool  smiles  always,  nor 
always  weeps),  and  saying  to  all  visitors, 
"  Tom  ain't  ter  hum ;  Tom  's  gone  to  Bonny 
Eagle  ;  Tom  don'  want  to  go  to  the  poor- 
farm." 

November  came  in  surly. 

The  cheerful  stir  and  bustle  of  the  harvest 
were  over,  the  corn  was  shocked,  the  apples 
and  pumpkins  were  gathered  into  barns. 
The  problem  of  Tom's  future  was  finally  laid 
before  the  selectmen  ;  and  since  the  poor  fel 
low's  mild  obstinacy  had  defeated  all  at 
tempts  to  conquer  it,  the  sheriff  took  the 
matter  in  hand. 

The  blueberry  plains  looked  bleak  and 
bare  enough  now.  It  had  rained  incessantly 
for  days,  growing  ever  colder  and  colder  as 
it  rained.  The  sun  came  out  at  last,  but  it 
shone  in  a  wintry  sort  of  way,  —  like  a  duty 
smile,  —  as  if  light,  not  heat,  were  its  object. 
A  keen  wind  blew  the  dead  leaves  hither 
and  thither  in  a  wild  dance  that  had  no  merri 
ment  in  it.  A  blackbird  flew  under  an  old 
barrel  by  the  wayside,  and,  ruffling  himself 
into  a  ball,  remarked  despondently  that 
feathers  were  no  sort  of  protection  in  this 
kind  of  climate.  A  snowbird,  flying  by, 
glanced  in  at  the  barrel,  and  observed  that 


44         TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

anybody  who  minded  a  little  breeze  like  that 
had  better  join  the  woodcocks,  who  were  leav 
ing  for  the  South  by  the  night  express. 

The  blueberry  bushes  were  stripped  bare 
of  green.  The  stunted  pines  and  sombre 
hemlocks  looked  in  tone  with  the  landscape 
now  ;  where  all  was  dreary  they  did  not  seem 
amiss. 

"  Je-whilikins !  "  exclaimed  the  sheriff  as 
he  drew  up  his  coat  collar.  "  A  madhouse 
is  the  place  for  the  man  who  wants  to  live 
ou'doors  in  the  winter  time ;  the  poor-farm 
is  too  good  for  him." 

But  Tom  was  used  to  privation,  and  even 
to  suffering.  "Ou'doors"  was  the  only 
home  he  knew,  and  with  all  its  rigors  he 
loved  it.  He  looked  over  the  barren  plains, 
knowing,  in  a  dull  sort  of  way,  that  they 
would  shortly  be  covered  with  snow ;  but 
he  had  three  coats,  two  of  them  with  sleeves, 
and  the  crunch-crunch  of  the  snow  under 
his  tread  was  music  to  his  ears.  Then,  too, 
there  were  a  few  hospitable  firesides  where 
he  could  always  warm  himself ;  and  the 
winter  would  soon  be  over,  the  birds  would 
come  again,  —  new  birds,  singing  the  old 
songs,  —  the  sap  would  mount  in  the  trees^ 
the  buds  swell  on  the  blueberry  bushes,  and 


TOM   0'    THE  BLUER RY  PLAINS.         45 

the  young  ivory  leaves  push  their  ruddy 
tips  through  the  softening  ground.  The 
plains  were  fatherland  and  mother-country, 
home  and  kindred,  to  Tom.  He  loved  the 
earth  that  nourished  him,  and  he  saw 
through  all  the  seeming  death  in  nature 
the  eternal  miracle  of  the  resurrection.  To 
him  winter  was  never  cruel.  He  looked 
underneath  her  white  mantle,  saw  the  in 
fant  spring  hidden  in  her  warm  bosom, 
and  was  content  to  wait.  Content  to  wait? 
Content  to  starve,  content  to  freeze,  if  only 
he  need  not  be  carried  into  captivity. 

The  poor-farm  was  not  a  bad  place,  either, 
if  only  Tom  had  been  a  reasonable  being. 
To  be  sure,  when  Hannah  Sophia  Palmer 
asked  old  Mrs.  Pinkham  how  she  liked  it, 
she  answered,  with  a  patient  sigh,  that  "her 
'11'  Mr.  Pinkham  hed  lived  there  goin'  on 
nine  year,  workin'  their  fingers  to  the  bone, 
'most,  V  yet  they  hadn't  been  able  to  lay 
up  a  cent !  "  If  this  peculiarity  of  admin 
istration  was  its  worst  feature,  it  was  cer 
tainly  one  that  would  have  had  no  terrors 
for  Tom  o'  the  blueb'ry  plains.  Terrors 
of  some  sort,  nevertheless,  the  poor-farm 
had  for  him;  and  when  the  sheriff's  party 
turned  in  by  the  clump  of  white  birches 


46         TOM   0'    THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

and  approached  the  cabin,  they  found  that 
fear  had  made  the  simple  wise.  Tom  had 
provisioned  the  little  upper  chamber,  and, 
in  place  of  the  piece  of  sacking  that  usually 
served  him  for  a  door  in  winter,  he  had 
woven  a  defense  of  willow.  In  fine,  he 
had  taken  all  his  basket  stuff,  and,  treat 
ing  the  opening  through  which  he  entered 
and  left  his  home  precisely  as  if  it  were  a 
bottomless  chair,  he  had  filled  it  in  solidly, 
weaving  to  and  fro,  by  night  as  well  as  by 
day,  till  he  felt,  poor  fool,  as  safely  in 
trenched  as  if  he  were  in  the  heart  of  a 
fortress. 

The  sheriff  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and 
Rube  Hobson  and  Pitt  Packard  got  out  of 
the  double  wagon.  Two  men  laughed  when 
they  saw  the  pathetic  defense,  but  the  other 
shut  his  lips  together  and  caught  his  breath. 
(He  had  been  born  on  a  poor-farm,  but 
no  one  knew  it  at  Pleasant  River.)  They 
called  Tom's  name  repeatedly,  but  no  other 
sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  plains  save 
the  rustling  of  the  wind  among  the  dead 
leaves. 

"  Numb-head !  "  muttered  the  sheriff,  pound 
ing  on  the  side  of  the  cabin  with  his  whip- 
stock.  "  Come  out  and  show  yourself !  We 


TOM   0'    THE  BLUEB'RY  PLAINS.         47 

know  you're  in  there,  and  it's  no  use  hid- 
ing!" 

At  last,  in  response  to  a  deafening  blow 
from  Rube  Hobson's  hard  fist,  there  came 
the  answering  note  of  a  weak,  despairing 
voice. 

"  Tom  ain't  ter  hum,"  it  said ;  "  Tom  's 
gone  to  Bonny  Eagle." 

"  That 's  all  right !  "  guffawed  the  men  ; 
"  but  you  've  got  to  go  some  more,  and  go 
a  diff'rent  way.  It  ain't  no  use  fer  you  to 
hold  back ;  we  've  got  a  ladder,  and  by 
Jiminy !  you  go  with  us  this  time  !  " 

The  ladder  was  put  against  the  side  of 
the  hut,  and  Pitt  Packard  climbed  up,  took 
his  jack-knife,  slit  the  woven  door  from  top 
to  bottom,  and  turned  back  the  flap. 

The  men  could  see  the  inside  of  the 
chamber  now.  They  were  humorous  per 
sons,  who  could  strain  a  joke  to  the  snap 
ping  point,  but  they  felt,  at  last,  that  there 
was  nothing  especially  amusing  in  the  situ 
ation.  Tom  was  huddled  in  a  heap  on  the 
straw  bed  in  the  far  corner.  The  vacant 
smile  had  fled  from  his  face,  and  he  looked, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  quite  dis 
traught. 

"Come    along,   Tom,"    said    the    sheriff 


48         TOM   0'    THE   BLUEB'RY  PLAINS. 

kindly ;  "  we  're  going  to  take  you  where 
you  can  sleep  in  a  bed,  and  have  three 
meals  a  day." 

"  I  'd  much  d'ruth-er  walk  in  the  bloom-in'  gy-ar-ding," 

sang  Tom  quaveringly,  as  he  hid  his  head 
in  a  paroxysm  of  fear. 

"  Well,  there  ain't  no  bloomin'  gardings 
to  walk  in  jest  now,  so  come  along  and  be 
peaceable." 

"  Tom  don'  want  to  go  to  the  poor-farm," 
he  wailed  piteously. 

But  there  was  no  alternative.  They 
dragged  him  off  the  bed  and  down  the 
ladder  as  gently  as  possible;  then  Kube 
Hobson  held  him  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
wagon,  while  the  sheriff  unhitched  the 
horse.  As  they  were  011  the  point  of  start 
ing,  the  captive  began  to  wail  and  struggle 
more  than  ever,  the  burden  of  his  plaint 
being  a  wild  and  tremulous  plea  for  his 
pail  of  molasses. 

"  Dry  up,  old  softy,  or  I  '11  put  the  buggy 
robe  over  your  head !  "  muttered  Rube  Hob- 
son,  who  had  not  had  much  patience  when 
he  started  on  the  trip,  and  had  lost  it  all 
by  this  time. 

"  By  thunder !  he  shall  hev  his  molasses, 


TOM   0>    THE  BLUER RY  PLAINS.         49 

if  he  thinks  he  wants  it!"  said  Pitt  Pack 
ard,  and  he  ran  up  the  ladder  and  brought 
it  down,  comforting  the  shivering  creature 
thus,  for  he  lapsed  into  a  submissive  si 
lence  that  lasted  until  the  unwelcome  jour 
ney  was  over. 

Tom  remained  at  the  poorhouse  precisely 
twelve  hours.  It  did  not  enter  the  minds 
of  the  authorities  that  any  one  so  fortunate 
as  to  be  admitted  into  that  happy  haven 
would  decline  to  stay  there.  The  unwilling 
guest  disappeared  early  on  the  morrow  of 
his  arrival,  and,  after  some  search,  they 
followed  him  to  the  old  spot.  He  had 
climbed  into  his  beloved  retreat,  and,  hav 
ing  learned  nothing  from  experience,  had 
mended  the  willow  door  as  best  he  could, 
and  laid  him  down  in  peace.  They  dragged 
him  out  again,  and  this  time  more  impa 
tiently;  for  it  was  exasperating  to  see  a 
man  (even  if  he  were  a  fool)  fight  against 
a  bed  and  three  meals  a  day. 

The  second  attempt  was  little  more  suc 
cessful  than  the  first.  As  a  place  of  resi 
dence,  the  poor-farm  did  not  seem  any  more 
desirable  or  attractive  on  near  acquaintance 
than  it  did  at  long  range.  Tom  remained 
a  week,  because  he  was  kept  in  close  con- 


50          TOM   0>    THE   BLUER  RY  PLAINS. 

finement;  but  when  they  judged  that  he 
was  weaned  from  his  old  home,  they  loosed 
his  bonds,  and — back  to  the  plains  he  sped, 
like  an  arrow  shot  from  the  bow,  or  like  a 
bit  of  iron  leaping  to  the  magnet. 

What  should  be  done  with  him  ? 

Public  opinion  was  divided.  Some  people 
declared  that  the  village  had  done  its  duty, 
and  if  the  "dog-goned  lunk-head"  wanted 
to  starve  and  freeze,  it  was  his  funeral,  not 
theirs.  Others  thought  that  the  community 
had  no  resource  but  to  bear  the  responsi 
bility  of  its  irresponsible  children,  however 
troublesome  they  might  be.  There  was  en 
tire  unanimity  of  view  so  far  as  the  main 
issues  were  concerned.  It  was  agreed  that 
nobody  at  the  poor-farm  had  leisure  to  stand 
guard  over  Tom  night  and  day,  and  that 
the  sheriff  could  not  be  expected  to  spend 
his  time  forcing  him  out  of  his  hut  on  the 
blueberry  plains. 

There  was  but  one  more  expedient  to  be 
tried,  a  very  simple  and  ingenious  but  radi 
cal  and  comprehensive  one,  which,  in  Rube 
Hobson's  opinion,  would  strike  at  the  root 
of  the  matter. 

Tom  had  fled  from  captivity  for  the  third 
time. 


TOM   0'    THE  BLUER  RY  PLAINS.         51 

He  had  stolen  out  at  daybreak,  and,  by 
an  unexpected  stroke  of  fortune,  the  mo 
lasses  pail  was  hanging  on  a  nail  by  the 
shed  door.  The  remains  of  a  battered  old 
bushel  basket  lay  on  the  wood-pile :  bottom 
it  had  none,  nor  handles ;  rotundity  of  side 
had  long  since  disappeared,  and  none  but 
its  maker  would  have  known  it  for  a  bas 
ket.  Tom  caught  it  up  in  his  flight,  and, 
seizing  the  first  crooked  stick  that  offered, 
he  slung  the  dear  familiar  burden  over  his 
shoulder  and  started  off  on  a  jog-trot. 

Heaven,  how  happy  he  was !  It  was  the 
rosy  dawn  of  an  Indian  summer  day,  —  a 
warm  jewel  of  a  day,  dropped  into  the  bleak 
world  of  yesterday  without  a  hint  of  benefi 
cent  intention ;  one  of  those  enchanting 
weather  surprises  with  which  Dame  Nature 
reconciles  us  to  her  stern  New  England 
rule. 

The  joy  that  comes  of  freedom,  and  the 
freedom  that  comes  of  joy,  unbent  the  old 
man's  stiffened  joints.  He  renewed  his 
youth  at  every  mile.  He  ran  like  a  lapwing. 
When  his  feet  first  struck  the  sandy  soil  of 
the  plains,  he  broke  into  the  old  song  of 
the  "  bloom-in'  gy-ar-ding  "  and  the  "  jolly 
swain,"  and  in  the  marvelous  mental  and 


52         TOM   0'    THE   ELUERRY  PLAINS. 

spiritual  exhilaration  born  of  the  supreme 
moment  he  almost  grasped  that  impossible 
last  note.  His  heart  could  hardly  hold  its 
burden  of  rapture  when  he  caught  the  well- 
known  gleam  of  the  white  birches.  He 
turned  into  the  familiar  path,  boy's  blood 
thumping  in  old  man's  veins.  The  past 
week  had  been  a  dreadful  dream.  A  few 
steps  more  and  he  would  be  within  sight, 
within  touch,  of  home,  —  home  at  last ! 
No  —  what  was  wrong  ?  He  must  have  gone 
beyond  it,  in  his  reckless  haste !  Strange 
that  he  could  have  forgotten  the  beloved 
spot !  Can  lover  mistake  the  way  to  sweet 
heart's  window  ?  Can  child  lose  the  path  to 
mother's  knee  ? 

He  turned,  —  ran  hither  and  thither,  like 
one  distraught.  A  nameless  dread  flitted 
through  his  dull  mind,  chilling  his  warm 
blood,  paralyzing  the  activity  of  the  moment 
before.  At  last,  with  a  sob  like  that  of  a 
frightened  child  who  flies  from  some  im 
agined  evil  lurking  in  darkness,  he  darted 
back  to  the  white  birches  and  started  anew. 
This  time  he  trusted  to  blind  instinct ;  his 
feet  knew  the  path,  and,  left  to  themselves, 
they  took  him  through  the  tangle  of  dry 
bushes  straight  to  his  — • 


TOM   0'    THE   BLUER  RY  PLAINS.         53 

It  had  vanished ! 

Nothing  but  ashes  remained  to  mark  the 
spot,  —  nothing  but  ashes  !  And  these,  ere 
many  days,  the  autumn  winds  would  scatter, 
and  the  leafless  branches  on  which  they  fell 
would  shake  them  off  lightly,  never  dream 
ing  that  they  hid  the  soul  of  a  home. 
Nothing  but  ashes  ! 

Poor  Tom  o'  the  blueb'ry  plains ! 


THE  NOONING  TKEE. 


THE  NOONING  TREE. 

THE  giant  elm  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
squire's  fair  green  meadows,  and  was  known 
to  all  the  country  round  about  as  the  "  Bean 
ellum."  The  other  trees  had  seemingly  re 
tired  to  a  respectful  distance,  as  if  they 
were  not  worthy  of  closer  intimacy ;  and  so 
it  stood  alone,  king  of  the  meadow,  monarch 
of  the  village. 

It  shot  from  the  ground  for  a  space, 
straight,  strong,  and  superb,  and  then  burst 
into  nine  splendid  branches,  each  a  tree  in 
itself,  all  growing  symmetrically  from  the 
parent  trunk,  and  casting  a  grateful  shadow 
under  which  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  tiny 
village  might  have  gathered. 

It  was  not  alone  its  size,  its  beauty,  its 
symmetry,  its  density  of  foliage,  that  made 
it  the  glory  of  the  neighborhood,  but  the 
low  growth  of  its  branches  and  the  extra 
ordinary  breadth  of  its  shade.  Passers-by 
from  the  adjacent  towns  were  wont  to  hitch 
their  teams  by  the  wayside,  crawl  through 


58  THE  NOONING   TREE. 

the  stump  fence  and  walk  across  the  fields, 
for  a  nearer  view  of  its  magnificence.  One 
man,  indeed,  was  known  to  drive  by  the  tree 
every  day  during  the  summer,  and  lift  his 
hat  to  it,  respectfully,  each  time  he  passed ; 
but  he  was  a  poet  and  his  intellect  was  not 
greatly  esteemed  in  the  village. 

The  elm  was  almost  as  beautiful  in  one 
season  as  in  another.  In  the  spring  it 
rose  from  moist  fields  and  mellow  ploughed 
ground,  its  tiny  brown  leaf  buds  bursting 
with  pride  at  the  thought  of  the  loveliness 
coiled  up  inside.  In  summer  it  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a  waving  garden  of  buttercups  and 
whiteweed,  a  towering  mass  of  verdant  leaf 
age,  a  shelter  from  the  sun  and  a  refuge 
from  the  storm ;  a  cool,  splendid,  hospitable 
dome,  under  which  the  weary  farmer  might 
fling  himself,  and  gaze  upward  as  into  the 
heights  and  depths  of  an  emerald  heaven. 
As  for  the  birds,  they  made  it  a  fashionable 
summer  resort,  the  most  commodious  and 
attractive  in  the  whole  country ;  with  no 
limit  to  the  accommodations  for  those  of  a 
gregarious  turn  of  mind,  liking  the  advan 
tages  of  select  society  combined  with  country 
air.  In  the  autumn  it  held  its  own;  for 
when  the  other  elms  changed  their  green  to 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  59 

duller  tints,  the  nooning  tree  put  on  a  gown 
of  yellow,  and  stood  out  against  the  far 
background  of  sombre  pine  woods  a  bril 
liant  mass  of  gold  and  brown.  In  winter, 
when  there  was  no  longer  dun  of  upturned 
sod,  nor  waving  daisy  gardens,  nor  ruddy 
autumn  grasses,  it  rose  above  the  dazzling 
snow  crust,  lifting  its  bare,  shapely  branches 
in  sober  elegance  and  dignity,  and  seeming 
to  say,  "  Do  not  pity  me ;  I  have  been,  and, 
please  God,  I  shall  be !  " 

Whenever  the  weather  was  sufficiently 
mild,  it  was  used  as  a  "  nooning  "  tree  by  all 
the  men  at  work  in  the  surrounding  fields ; 
but  it  was  in  haying  time  that  it  became  the 
favorite  lunching  and  "  bangeing  "  place  for 
Squire  Bean's  hands  and  those  of  Miss  Vilda 
Cummins,  who  owned  the  adjoining  farm. 
The  men  congregated  under  the  spreading 
branches  at  twelve  o'  the  clock,  and  spent 
the  noon  hour  there,  eating  and  "  swapping  " 
stories,  as  they  were  doing  to-day. 

Each  had  a  tin  pail,  and  each  consumed 
a  quantity  of  "  flour  food "  that  kept  the 
housewives  busy  at  the  cook  stove  from  morn 
ing  till  night.  A  glance  at  Pitt  Packard's 
luncheon,  for  instance,  might  suffice  as  an 
illustration,  for,  as  Jabe  Slocum  said,  "  Pitt 


60  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

took  after  both  his  parents  :  one  et  a  good 
deal,  V  the  other  a  good  while."  His  pail 
contained  four  doughnuts,  a  quarter  section 
of  pie,  six  buttermilk  biscuits,  six  ginger 
cookies,  a  baked  cup  custard,  and  a  quart  of 
cold  coffee.  This  quantity  was  a  trifle  un 
usual,  but  every  man  in  the  group  was  lined 
throughout  with  pie,  cemented  with  butter 
milk  bread,  and  riveted  with  doughnuts. 

Jabe  Slocum  and  Brad  Gibson  lay  ex 
tended  slouchingly,  their  cowhide  boots 
turned  up  to  the  sky ;  Dave  Milliken,  Steve 
Webster,  and  the  others  leaned  back  against 
the  tree-trunk,  smoking  clay  pipes,  or  hug 
ging  their  knees  and  chewing  blades  of  grass 
reflectively. 

One  man  sat  apart  from  the  rest,  gloomily 
puffing  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air.  After 
a  while  he  lay  down  in  the  grass  with  his 
head  buried  in  his  hat,  sleeping  to  all  ap 
pearances,  while  the  others  talked  and 
laughed  ;  for  he  had  no  stories,  though  he 
put  in  an  absent-minded  word  or  two  when 
he  was  directly  addressed.  This  was  the 
man  from  Tennessee,  Matt  Henderson, 
dubbed  "  Dixie  "  for  short.  He  was  a  giant 
fellow,  —  a  "  great  gormin'  critter,"  Saman- 
tha  Ann  Milliken  called  him ;  but  if  he  had 


THE  NOONING    TREE.  61 

held  up  his  head  and  straightened  his  broad 
shoulders,  he  would  have  been  thought  a 
man  of  splendid  presence. 

He  seemed  a  being  from  another  sphere 
instead  of  from  another  section  of  the  coun 
try.  It  was  not  alone  the  olive  tint  of  the 
skin,  the  mass  of  wavy  dark  hair  tossed  back 
from  a  high  forehead,  the  sombre  eyes,  and 
the  sad  mouth,  —  a  mouth  that  had  never 
grown  into  laughing  curves  through  telling 
Yankee  jokes,  —  it  was  not  these  that  gave 
him  what  the  boys  called  a  "kind  of  a 
downcasted  look."  The  man  from  Tennes 
see  had  something  more  than  a  melancholy 
temperament ;  he  had,  or  physiognomy  was 
a  lie,  a  sorrow  tugging  at  his  heart. 

«  I  'm  goin'  to  doze  a  spell,"  drawled  Jabe 
Slocum,  pulling  his  straw  hat  over  his  eyes. 
"I've  got  to  renew  my  strength  like  the 
eagle's,  'f  I'm  goin'  to  walk  to  the  circus 
this  afternoon.  Wake  me  up,  boys,  when 
you  think  I'd  ought  to  sling  that  scythe 
some  more,  for  if  I  hev  it  on  my  mind  I 
can't  git  a  wink  o'  sleep." 

This  was  apparently  a  witticism ;  at  any 
rate,  it  elicited  roars  of  laughter. 

"  It 's  one  o'  Jabe's  useless  days ;  he  takes 
'em  from  his  great-aunt  Lyddy,"  said  David 
Milliken. 


62  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

"  You  jest  dry  up,  Dave.  Ef  it  took  me 
as  long  to  git  to  workin'  as  it  did  you  to  git 
a  wife,  I  bate  this  hay  would  n't  git  mowed 
down  till  crack  o'  doom.  Gorry  !  ain't  this 
a  tree  !  I  tell  you,  the  sun  'n'  the  airth,  the 
dew  'n'  the  showers,  'n'  the  Lord  God  o'  cre 
ation  jest  took  holt  'n'  worked  together  on 
this  tree,  'n'  no  mistake  ! ; 

"  You  're  right,  Jabe."  (This  from  Steve 
Webster,  who  was  absently  cutting  a  D  in 
the  bark.  He  was  always  cutting  D's  these 
days.)  "This  ellum  can't  be  beat  in  the 
State  o'  Maine,  nor  no  other  state.  My 
brother  that  lives  in  California  says  that  the 
big  redwoods,  big  as  they  air,  don't  throw 
no  sech  shade,  nor  ain't  so  han'some,  'specially 
in  the  fall  o'  the  year,  as  our  State  o'  Maine 
trees ;  '  assiduous  trees,'  he  called  'em." 

"Assidyus  trees?  Why  don't  you  talk 
United  States  while  you  're  about  it,  'n'  not 
fire  yer  long-range  words  round  here  ?  As 
sidyus  !  What  does  it  mean,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Can't  prove  it  by  me.  That 's  what  he 
called  'em,  'n'  I  never  forgot  it." 

"  Assidyus  —  assidyus  —  it  don't  sound 
as  if  it  meant  nothin',  to  me." 

"'Assiduous'  means  'busy,'"  said  the 
man  from  Tennessee,  who  had  suddenly 


THE   NOONING   TREE. 

waked  from  a  brown  study,  and  dropped  off 
into  another  as  soon  as  he  had  given  the 
definition. 

"  Busy,  does  it  ?  Wall,  I  guess  we  ain't 
no  better  off  now  'n  we  ever  was.  One  tree  's 
'bout  's  busy  as  another,  as  fur  's  I  can 

see." 

"  Wall,  there  is  a  kind  of  a  meanin'  in  it 
to  me,  but  it 's  tumble  far  fetched,"  remarked 
Jabez  Slocum,  rather  sleepily.     "You  see, 
our  ellums  and  maples  'n'  all   them  trees 
spends  part  o'  the  year  in  buddin'  'n'  gittin' 
out  their  leaves  '11'  hangin'  'em  all  over  the 
branches  ;  'n'  then,  no  sooner  air  they  full 
grown  than  they  hev  to  begin  colorin'  of  'em 
red  or  yeller  or  brown,  'n'  then  shakin'  of 
'em  off  ;  V  this  is  all  extry,  you  might  say, 
to  their  every-day  chores  o'  growin'  'n'  cir- 
kerlatin'  sap,  'n'  spreadin'  'n'  thickenin'  'n' 
shovin'  out  limbs,  'n'  one  thing  'n'  'nother  ; 
'n'  it  stan's  to  reason  that  the  firs  'n'  hem 
locks    'n'    them    California    redwoods,   that 
keeps    their    clo'es    on    right   through    the 
year,  can't  be  so  busy  as  them  that  keeps 
a-dressin'  'n'  ondressin'  all  the  time." 

"  I  guess  you  're  'bout  right,"  allowed 
Steve,  "  but  I  shouldn't  never  'a'  thought  of 
it  in  the  world.  What  yer  takin'  out  o'  that 


64  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

bottle,  Jabe  ?  I  thought  you  was  a  temper 
ance  man." 

"  I  guess  he  's  like  the  feller  over  to  Sha- 
dagee  schoolhouse,  that  said  he  was  in  favor 
o'  the  law,  but  agin  its  enforcement !  " 
laughed  Pitt  Packard. 

"  I  ain't  breakin'  no  law ;  this  is  yarb 
bitters,"  Jabe  answered,  with  a  pull  at  the 
bottle. 

"  It 's  to  cirkerlate  his  blood,"  said  Ob 
Tarbox  ;  "  he  's  too  dog-goned  lazy  to  cirker 
late  it  himself." 

"  I  'm  takin'  it  fer  what  ails  me,"  said 
Jabe  oracularly ;  "  the  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness,  'n'  it  's  a  wise  child  that 
knows  its  own  complaints  'thout  goin'  to  a 
doctor." 

"  Ain't  yer  scared  fer  fear  it  '11  start  yer 
growth,  Laigs  ?  "  asked  little  Brad  Gibson, 
looking  at  Jabe's  tremendous  length  of  limb 
and  foot.  "  Say,  how  do  yer  git  them  feet 
o'  yourn  uphill  ?  Do  yer  start  one  ahead,  '11' 
side-track  the  other  ?  " 

The  tree  rang  with  the  laughter  evoked  by 
this  sally,  but  the  man  from  Tennessee  never 
smiled. 

Jabe  Slocum's  imperturbable  good  humor 
was  not  shaken  in  the  very  least  by  these 


THE  NOONING    TREE.  65 

personal  remarks.  "  If  I  thought  't  was  a 
good  growin'  medicine,  I  'd  recommend  it  to 
your  folks,  Brad,"  he  replied  cheerfully, 
"  Your  mother  says  you  boys  air  all  so  short 
that  when  you  're  diggin'  potatoes,  yer  can't 
see  her  shake  the  dinner  rag  'thout  gittin' 
up  'n'  standin'  on  the  potato  hills  ! 
was  a  sinikitin  feller  like  you,  I  wouldn't 
hector  folks  that  had  made  out  to  grow 


"  Speakin'  o'  growin',"  said  Steve  Web 
ster,  "  who  do  you  guess  I  seen  in  Boston, 
when  I  was  workin'  there  ?    That  tall  Swat- 
kins  girl  from  the  Duck  Pond,  the  one  that 
married  Dan  Robinson.    It  was  one  Sunday, 
in   the   Catholic   meetiii'-house.     I'd  allers 
wanted  to  go  to  a  Catholic  meetin',  an'  I  de 
clare  it 's  about  the  solemnest  one  there  is.    I 
mistrusted  I  was  goin'  to  eveiiastin'ly  giggle, 
but  I  tell  yer  I  was  the  awedest  cutter  yer 
ever  see.     But  anyway,  the  Swatkins  girl  — 
or  Mis'  Robinson,  she  is  now  —  was  there 
as  large  as   life  in   the   next   pew  to  me, 
jabberin'  Latin,  pawin'  beads,  gettin'  up  'n' 
kneelin'    down,    'n'    crossin'    herself    north, 
south,  east,  'n'  west,  with  the  best  of  'em. 
Poor  Dan  !    c  Grinnin'  Dan,'  we  used  to  call 
him.     Well,  he  don't  grin  nowadays.     He 


66  THE  NOONING    TREE; 

never  was  good  for  much,  but  he  's  hed 
more  'n  his  comeuppance  !  " 

"  Why,  what  's  the  matter  with  him  ? 
Can't  he  git  work  in  Boston  ?  " 

"Matter?  Why,  his  wife,  that  I  see 
makin'  believe  be  so  dreadful  pious  in  the 
Catholic  meetin',  she  's  carried  on  wuss  'n 
the  Old  Driver  fer  two  years,  V  now  she  's 
up  'n'  left  him,  —  gone  with  a  han'somer 
man." 

Down  on  Steve  Webster's  hand  came  Jabe 
Slocum's  immense  paw  with  a  grasp  that 
made  him  cringe. 

"  What  the  "  —  began  Steve,  when  the 
man  from  Tennessee  took  up  his  scythe  and 
slouched  away  from  the  group  by  the  tree. 

"  Did  n't  yer  know  no  better  'n  that,  yer 
thunder  in'  fool  ?  Can't  yer  see  a  hole  in  a 
grindstun  'thout  it 's  hung  on  yer  nose  ?  " 

"  What  hev  I  done?  "  asked  Steve,  as  if 
dumfounded. 

"  Done  ?  Where  've  yer  ben,  that  yer 
don't  know  Dixie's  wife  's  left  him?  " 

"  Where  've  I  ben  ?  Hain't  I  ben  workin' 
in  Boston  fer  a  year  ;  'n'  since  I  come  home 
last  week,  hain't  I  ben  tendin'  sick  folks,  so 
't  I  could  n't  git  outside  the  dooryard  ?  I 
never  seen  the  man  in  my  life  till  yesterday, 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  67 

in  the  field,  V  I  thought  he  was  one  o'  them 
dark-skinned  Frenchies  from  Guildford  that 
hed  come  up  here  fer  hayin'." 

"  Mebbe  I  spoke  too  sharp,"  said  Jabe 
apologetically ;  "  but  we  've  ben  scared  to 
talk  wives,  or  even  women  folks,  fer  a  month 
o'  Sundays,  fer  fear  Dixie  'd  up  '11'  tumble 
on  his  scythe,  or  do  somethin'  crazy.  You 
see  it 's  this  way  (I  'd  ruther  talk  than  work ; 
'n'  we  ain't  workin'  by  time  to-day,  anyway, 
on  account  of  the  circus  comin')  :  'Bout  a 
year  'n'  a  half  ago,  this  tall,  han'some  feller 
turned  up  here  in  Pleasant  Kiver.  He  in- 
hailed  from  down  South  somewheres,  but  he 
did  n't  like  his  work  there,  'n'  drifted  to  New 
York,  'n'  then  to  Boston  ;  'n'  then  he  remem 
bered  his  mother  was  a  State  o'  Maine 
woman,  'n'  he  come  here  to  see  how  he  liked. 
We  did  n't  take  no  stock  in  him  at  first,  — 
we  never  hed  one  o'  that  nigger-tradin',  se- 
cedin'  lot  in  amongst  us,  —  but  he  was  pleas 
ant  spoken  'n'  a  square,  all-round  feller,  'n' 
did  n't  git  off  any  secesh  nonsense,  'n'  it  ended 
in  our  likin'  him  first-rate.  Wall,  he  got 
work  in  the  cannin'  fact'ry  over  on  the  But- 
terfield  road,  'n'  then  he  fell  in  with  the  Mad- 
doxes.  You  've  hearn  tell  of  'em  ;  they  're 
relation  to  Pitt  here." 


68  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

"  I  would  n't  own  'em  if  I  met  'em  on 
Judgment  Bench !  "  exclaimed  Pitt  Packard 
hotly.  "  My  stepfather's  second  wife  mar 
ried  Mis'  Maddox's  first  husband  after  he 
got  divorced  from  her,  V  that 's  all  there  is 
to  it ;  they  ain't  no  bloody-kin  o'  mine,  'n'  I 
don't  call  'em  relation." 

"  Wall,  Pitt's  relations  or  not,  they  're  all 
wuss'n  the  Old  Driver,  as  yer  said  'bout 
Dan  Robinson's  wife.  Dixie  went  to  board 
there.  Mis'  Maddox  was  all  out  o'  husbands 
jest  then,  —  she  'd  jest  disposed  of  her  fourth, 
somehow  or  'nother ;  she  always  hed  a  plenty 
'n'  to  spare,  though  there 's  lots  o'  likely 
women  folks  round  here  that  never  hed  one 
chance,  let  alone  four.  Her  daughter  Fidelity 
was  a  chip  o'  the  old  block.  Her  father  hed 
named  her  Fidelity  after  his  mother,  when 
she  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  two-days-old  baby, 
V  he  did  n't  know  how  she  was  goin'  to  turn 
out ;  if  he  'd  'a'  waited  two  months,  I  believe 
I  could  'a'  told  him.  /^fidelity  would  'a'  ben 
a  mighty  sight  more  'propriate;  but  either 
of  'em  is  too  long  fer  a  name,  so  they  got  to 
callin'  her  Fiddy.  Wall,  Fiddy  did  n't  waste 
no  time  ;  she  was  nigh  onto  eighteen  years 
old  when  Dixie  went  there  to  board,  'n'  she 
begun  honeyfuglin'  him  's  soon  as  ever  she 


THE  NOONING   TREE.  69 

set  eyes  on  him.  Folks  warned  him,  but 't 
wa'n't  no  use  ;  he  was  kind  o'  bewitched  with 
her  from  the  first.  She  wa'n't  so  han'some, 
neither.  Blamed  '£  I  know  how  they  do  it ; 
let  'em  alone,  'f  yer  know  when  yer  're  well 
off,  's  my  motter.  She  was  red-headed,  but 
her  hair  become  her  somehow  when  she  curled 
V  frizzed  it  over  a  karosene  lamp,  V  then 
wound  it  round  'n'  round  her  head  like  ropes 
o'  carnelian.  She  hed  n't  any  particular 
kind  of  a  nose  nor  mouth  nor  eyes,  but  gorry ! 
when  she  looked  at  yer,  yer  felt  kind  as  if 
yer  was  turnin'  to  putty  inside." 

"  I  know  what  yer  mean,"  said  Steve  in 
terestedly. 

"  She  hed  a  figger  jest  like  them  fashion- 
paper  pictures  you  've  seen,  an'  the  very  day 
any  new  styles  come  to  Boston  Fiddy  Mad- 
dox  would  hev  'em  before  sundown  ;  the 
biggest  bustles  'n'  the  highest  hats  'n'  the 
tightest  skirts  'n'  the  longest  tails  to  'em  ; 
she  'd  git  'em  somehow,  anyhow !  Dixie 
wa'n't  out  o'  money  when  he  come  here,  an' 
a  spell  afterwards  there  was  more  '11  a  thou 
sand  dollars  fell  to  him  from  his  father's  folks 
down  South.  Well,  Fiddy  made  that  fly,  I 
tell  you !  Dixie  bought  a  top  buggy  'n'  a 
sorrel  hoss,  'n'  they  was  on  the  road  most  o' 


70  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

the  time  when  he  wa'n't  to  work ;  V  when 
he  was,  she  'd  go  with  Lem  Simmons,  'n' 
Dixie  none  the  wiser.  Mis'  Maddox  was 
lookin'  up  a  new  husband  jest  then,  so  't  she 
did  n't  interfere  "  — 

"  She  was  the  same  kind  o'  goods,  any 
how,"  interpolated  Ob  Tarbox. 

"  Yes,  she  was  one  of  them  women  folks 
that  air  so  light-minded  you  can't  anchor  'em 
down  with  a  sewin'-machine,  nor  a  dishpan, 
nor  a  husband  V  young  ones,  nor  no  nam- 
able  kind  of  a  thing ;  the  least  wind  blows 
'em  here  'n'  blows  'em  there,  like  dandelion 
puffs.  As  time  went  on,  the  widder  got  her 
self  a  beau  now  'n'  then  ;  but  as  fast  as  she 
hooked  'em,  Fiddy  up  'n'  took  'em  away  from 
her.  You  see  she  'd  gethered  in  most  of  her 
husbands  afore  Fiddy  was  old  enough  to  hev 
her  finger  in  the  pie ;  but  she  cut  her  eye- 
teeth  early,  Fiddy  did,  'n'  there  wa'n't  no 
kind  of  a  feller  come  to  set  up  with  the  wid 
der  but  she  'd  everlastin'ly  grab  him,  if  she 
hed  any  use  fer  him,  'n'  then  there  'd  be  Hail 
Columby,  I  tell  yer.  But  Dixie,  he  was 's 
blind  's  a  bat  'n'  deef  's  a  post.  He  could  n't 
see  nothin'  but  Fiddy,  'n'  he  could  n't  see  her 
very  plain." 

"  He  hed  warnings  enough,"  put  in  Pitt 


THE  NOONING    TREE.  71 

Packard,  though  Jabe  Slocum  never  needed 
any  assistance  in  spinning  a  yarn. 

"  Warnin's!  I  should  think  he  hed.  The 
Seventh  Day  Baptist  minister  went  so  fur  as 
to  preach  at  him.  4  The  Apostle  Paul  gin 
heed,'  was  the  text.  '  Why  did  he  gin  heed  ? ' 
says  he.  4  Because  he  heerd.  If  he  had  n't 
'a'  heerd,  he  couldn't  'a'  gin  heed,  V  't 
would  n't  'a'  done  him  no  good  to  'a'  heerd 
'thout  he  gin  heed ! '  Wall,  it  helped  con- 
sid'ble  many  in  the  congregation,  'specially 
them  that  was  in  the  habit  of  hearin'  V  heed- 
in',  but  it  rolled  right  off  Dixie  like  water 
off  a  duck's  back.  He  V  Fiddy  was  seen 
over  to  the  ballin'  alley  to  Wareham  next 
day,  V  they  did  n't  come  back  for  a  week." 

"  '  He  gin  her  his  hand, 

And  he  made  her  his  own,'  " 

sang  little  Brad  Gibson. 

"  He  hed  gin  her  his  hand,  but  no  minis 
ter  nor  trial-jestice  nor  eighteen-carat  ring 
nor  stificate  could  'a'  made  Fiddy  Maddox 
anybody's  own  'ceptin'  the  devil's,  an'  he 
would  n't  'a'  married  her  ;  she  'd  'a'  ben  too 
near  kin.  We  'd  never  'spicioned  she  'd  git 's 
fur 's  marryin'  anybody,  V  she  only  married 
Dixie  'cause  he  told  her  he  'd  take  her  to  the 


72  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

Wareham  House  to  dinner,  V  to  the  County 
Fair  afterwards ;  if  any  other  feller  hed  of 
fered  to  take  her  to  supper,  'n'  the  theatre 
on  top  o'  that,  she  'd  'a'  married  him  instid." 

"  How  'd  the  old  woman  take  it  ?  "  asked 
Steve. 

"  She  disowned  her  daughter  punctilio  : 
in  the  first  place,  fer  runnin'  away  'stid  o' 
hevin'  a  church  weddin' ;  'n'  second  place, 
fer  marryin'  a  pauper  (that  was  what  she 
called  him  ;  'n'  it  was  true,  for  they  'd  spent 
every  cent  he  hed)  ;  'n'  third  place,  fer  alien- 
atin'  the  'fections  of  a  travelin'  baker-man 
she  hed  her  eye  on  fer  herself.  He  was  a 
kind  of  a  flour-food  peddler,  that  used  to 
drive  a  cart  round  by  Hard  Scrabble,  Mod 
eration,  'n'  Scratch  Corner  way.  Mis'  Mad- 
dox  used  to  buy  all  her  baked  victuals  of  him, 
'specially  after  she  found  out  he  was  a  wid 
ower  beginnin'  to  take  notice.  His  cart  used 
to  stand  at  her  door  so  long  everybody  on  the 
rout  would  complain  o'  stale  bread.  But 
bime  bye  Fiddy  begun  to  set  at  her  winder 
when  he  druv  up,  'n'  bime  bye  she  pinned  a 
blue  ribbon  in  her  collar.  When  she  done 
tha^t,  Mis'  Maddox  allers  hed  to  take  a  back 
seat.  The  boys  used  to  call  it  a  danger 
signal.  It  kind  o'  drawed  yer  'tention  to 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  73 

p'ints  'bout  her  chin  V  mouth  V  neck, 
'n'  one  thing  'n'  'nother,  in  a  way  that  was 
cal'lated  to  snarl  up  the  thoughts  V  per- 
fessors  o'  religion  'n'  turn  'em  earthways. 
There  was  a  spell  I  hed  to  say,  '  Remember 
Rhapseny  !  Remember  Rhapseny!'  over 
to  myself  whenever  Fidcly  put  on  her  blue 
ribbons.  Wall,  as  I  say,  Fiddy  set  at  the 
winder,  the  baker-man  seen  the  blue  rib 
bons,  'n'  Mis'  Maddox's  cake  was  dough. 
She  put  on  a  red  ribbon;  but  land!  her 
neck  looked  's  if  somebody  'd  gone  over  it 
with  a  harrer!  Then  she  stomped  round 
'n'  slat  the  dish-rag,  but  'twa'n't  no  use. 
'  Gracious,  mother,'  says  Fiddy, 4 1  don't  do 
nothin'  but  set  at  the  winder.  The  sun 
shines  for  all.'  4  You  're  right  it  does,'  says 
Mis'  Maddox,  4  '11'  that 's  jest  what  I  com 
plain  of.  I  'd  like  to  get  a  chance  to  shine 
on  someftiing  myself.' 

"But  the  baker -man  kep'  on  comin', 
though  when  he  got  to  the  Maddoxes' 
doorsteps  he  couldn't  make  change  for  a 
quarter  nor  tell  pie  from  bread  ;  an'  sure  's 
you  're  born,  the  very  day  Fiddy  went  away 
to  be  married  to  Dixie,  that  mornin'  she 
drawed  that  everlastin'  numhead  of  a  flour- 
food  peddler  out  into  the  orchard,  'n'  cut  off 


74  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

a  lock  o'  her  hair,  'n'  tied  it  up  with  a  piece 
o'  her  blue  ribbon,  'n'  give  it  to  him  ;  an' 
old  Mis'  Bascom  says,  when  he  went  past 
her  house  he  was  gazin'  at  it  'n'  kissin'  of 
it,  'n'  his  horse  meanderin'  one  side  the  road 
'n'  the  other,  'n'  the  door  o'  the  cart  open 
'n'  slammin'  to  'n'  fro,  'n'  ginger  cookies 
spillin'  out  all  over  the  lot.  He  come  back 
to  the  Maddoxes  next  mornin'  ('t  wa'n't  his 
day,  but  his  hoss  couldn't  pull  one  way 
when  Fiddy's  ribbon  was  pullin'  t'other  )  ; 
an'  when  he  found  out  she'd  gone  with 
Dixie,  he  cussed  'n'  stomped  'n'  took  on  like 
a  loontic ;  an'  when  Mis'  Maddox  hinted 
she  was  ready  to  heal  the  wownds  Fiddy  'd 
inflicted,  he  stomped  'n'  cussed  wuss  'n' 
ever,  'n'  the  neighbors  say  he  called  her  a 
hombly  old  trollop,  an'  fired  the  bread  loaves 
all  over  the  dooryard,  he  was  so  crazy  at 
bein'  cheated. 

"  Wall,  to  go  back  to  Dixie  -  I  '11  be 
comin'  right  along,  boys."  (This  to  Brad 
Gibson,  who  was  taking  his  farewell  drink 
of  ginger  tea  preparatory  to  beginning 
work.) 

1  "  I  pity  you,  Steve  ! "  exclaimed  Brad, 
between  deep  swallows.  "  If  you  'd  known 
when  you  was  well  off,  you  'd  'a'  stayed  in 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  75 

Boston.     If  Jabe  hed  a  story  started,  he  'd 
talk  three  days  after  he  was  dead." 

"  Go  'long ;  leave  me  be !  Wall,  as  I  was 
sayin',  Dixie  brought  Fiddy  home  (4  Dell,' 
he  called  her),  an'  they  'peared  bride  'n' 
groom  at  meetin'  next  Sunday.  The  last 
hundred  dollars  he  hed  in  the  world  hed 
gone  into  the  weddin'  tower  'n'  on  to 
Fiddy' s  back.  He  hed  a  new  suit,  'n'  he 
looked  like  a  major.  You  ain't  got  no  idea 
what  he  was,  'cause  his  eyes  is  dull  now, 
'n'  he 's  bowed  all  over,  'n'  ain't  shaved  nor 
combed,  hardly ;  but  they  was  the  han'somest 
couple  that  ever  walked  up  the  broad  aisle. 
She  hed  on  a  green  silk  dress,  an'  a  lace 
cape  that  was  like  a  skeeter  nettin'  over  her 
neck  an'  showed  her  bare  skin  through,  an' 
a  hat  like  an  apple  orchard  in  full  bloom, 
hummin'-bird  an'  all.  Dixie  kerried  himself 
as  proud  as  Lucifer.  He  did  n't  look  at  the 
minister  'n'  he  did  n't  look  at  the  congrega 
tion  ;  his  great  eyes  was  glued  on  Fiddy,  as 
if  he  could  n't  hardly  keep  from  eatin'  of  her 
up.  An'  she  behaved  consid'able  well  for  a 
few  months,  as  long  's  the  novelty  lasted  an' 
the  silk  dresses  was  new.  Before  Christmas, 
though,  she  begun  to  peter  out  'n'  git  slack- 
twisted.  She  allers  hated  housework  as  bad 


76  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

as  a  pig  would  a  penwiper,  an'  Dixie  lied  to 
git  his  own  breakfast  afore  he  went  to  work, 
or  go  off  on  an  empty  stomach.  Many  's 
the  time  he  's  got  her  meals  for  her  V  took 
'em  to  her  on  a  waiter.  Them  secesh  fel 
lers  '11  wait  on  women  folks  long  as  they  can 
stan'  up. 

"  Then  bime  bye  the  baby  come  along ; 
but  that  made  things  wuss  'stid  o'  better. 
She  did  n't  pay  no  more  'tention  to  it  than 
if  it  hed  belonged  to  the  town.  She  'd  go 
off  to  dances,  an'  leave  Dixie  to  home  tendin' 
cradle  ;  but  that  wa'n't  no  hardship  to  him, 
for  he  was  'bout  as  much  wropped  up  in  the 
child  as  he  was  in  Fiddy.  Wall,  sir,  'bout 
a  month  ago  she  up  V  disappeared  off  the 
face  o'  the  airth  'thout  sayin'  a  word  or 
leavin'  a  letter.  She  took  her  clo'es,  but 
she  never  thought  o'  takin'  the  baby ;  one 
baby  more  or  less  did  n't  make  no  odds  to 
her  s'  long  's  she  hed  that  skeeter-nettin' 
cape.  Dixie  sarched  fer  her  high  an'  low 
fer  a  fortnight,  but  after  that  he  give  it  up 
as  a  bad  job.  He  found  out  enough,  I  guess, 
to  keep  him  pretty  busy  thinkin'  what  he  'd 
do* next.  But  day  before  yesterday  the  same 
circus  that  plays  here  this  afternoon  was 
playin'  to  Wareham.  A  lot  of  us  went  over 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  77 

on  the  evenin'  train,  an'  we  coaxed  Dixie 
into  goin',  so 's  to  take  his  mind  off  his 
trouble.  But  land  !  he  did  n't  see  nothin'. 
He  'd  walk  right  by  the  lions  'n'  tigers  in 
the  menagerie  as  if  they  was  cats  'n'  chick 
ens,  an'  all  the  time  the  clown  was  singin' 
he  looked  like  a  dumb  animile  that's  hed 
a  bullet  put  in  him.  There  was  lots  o'  side 
shows,  mermaids  'n'  six-legged  calves  'n' 
spotted  girls,  'n'  one  thing  'n'  'nother,  an' 
there  was  one  o'  them  whirligig  machines 
with  a  mess  o'  rockin'-hosses  goin'  round  'n' 
round,  'n'  an  organ  in  the  middle  playin' 
like  sixty.  I  wish  we  'd  'a'  kept  clear  o'  the 
thing,  but,  as  bad  luck  would  hev  it,  we 
stopped  to  look,  an'  there,  on  top  o'  two  high- 
steppin'  white  wooden  hosses,  set  Mis'  Fiddy 
an'  that  dod-gasted  light-complected  baker- 
man  !  If  ever  she  was  suited  to  a  dot,  it 
was  jest  then  'n'  there.  She  could  'a'  gone 
prancin'  round  that  there  ring  forever  'n' 
forever,  with  the  whoopin'  'n'  hollerin'  'n' 
whizzin'  'n'  whirlin'  soundin'  in  her  ears,  'n' 
the  music  playin'  like  mad,  'n'  she  with  no- 
thin'  to  do  but  stick  on  'n'  let  some  feller 
foot  the  bills.  Somebody  must  V  ben 
thinkin'  o'  Fiddy  Maddox  when  they  in 
vented  them  whirl-a-go-rounds.  She  was 


78  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

laughin'  V  carryin'  on  like  the  old  Scratch ; 
her  apple-blossom  hat  come  off,  V  the  baker 
man  put  it  on,  V  took  consicTable  time  over 
it,  V  pulled  her  ear  'n'  pinched  her  cheek 
when  he  got  through  ;  an'  that  was  jest  the 
blamed  minute  we  ketched  sight  of  'em.  I 
pulled  Dixie  off,  but  I  was  too  late.  He 
give  a  groan  I  shall  remember  to  my  dyin' 
day,  'n'  then  he  plunged  out  o'  the  crowd  'n' 
through  the  gate  like  a  streak  o'  lightnin'. 
We  f  ollered,  but  land  !  we  could  n't  find 
him ;  an'  true  as  I  set  here,  I  never  ex 
pected  to  see  him  alive  agin.  But  I  did  ;  I 
forgot  all  about  one  thing,  you  see,  V  that 
was  the  baby.  If  it  wa'n't  no  attraction  to 
its  mother,  I  guess  he  cal'lated  it  needed  a 
father  all  the  more.  Anyhow,  he  turned  up 
in  the  field  yesterday  mornin',  ready  for 
work,  but  lookin'  as  if  he  'd  lied  his  heart 
cut  out  'n'  a  piece  o'  lead  put  in  the  place 
of  it." 

"  It  don't  seem  as  if  she  'd  'a'  ben  brazen 
enough  to  come  back  so  near  home,"  said 
Steve. 

"  Wall,  I  don't  s'pose  she  hed  any  idea 
o'  Dixie's  bein'  at  a  circus  over  at  Ware- 
ham  jest  then  ;  an'  ten  to  one  she  did  n't 
care  if  the  whole  town  seen  her.  She 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  79 

wanted   to  git    rid   of    him,  V  she  didn't 
mind  how  she  done  it.     Dixie  ain't  one  of 
the  shootin'  kind,  an'  anyhow,  Fiddy  Matl- 
dox  wa'n't    one  to    look   ahead;    whatever 
she  wanted  to  do,  that  she  done,  from  the 
time  she  was  knee  high   to  a  grasshopper. 
I  've  seen  her  set  down  by  a  peck  basket  of 
apples,  V  take  a  couple  o'  bites  out  o'  one, 
V  then  heave  it  fur  's  she  could  heave  it 
V  start  in  on  another,  'n'  then  another  ;  'n' 
't  wa'n't  a  good  apple  year,  neither.     She  'd 
everlastin'ly  spile  'bout  a  dozen  of  'em  'n' 
swaller  'bout  two  mouthfuls.       Doxy  Mor 
ton,  now,  would  eat  an  apple  clean  down  to 
the  core,  'n'  then  count  the  seeds  'n'  put  'em 
on  the  window-sill  to  dry,  'n'  get  up  'n'  put 
the  core  in  the  stove,  'n'  wipe  her  hands  on 
the  roller  towel,  'n'  take  up  her  sewin'  agin  ; 
'n'  if  you  've  got  to  be  cuttin'  'nitials  in  tree 
bark  an'  writin'  of  'em  in  the   grass  with  a 
stick,  like  you  've  ben  doin'  for  the  last  half- 
hour,  you  're  blamed  lucky  to  be  doin'  D's, 
not  F's,  like  Dixie  there  !  " 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
The  men  had  dropped  work  and  gone  to 
the  circus.  The  hay  was  pronounced  to 
be  in  a  condition  where  it  could  be  left 


80  THE   NOONING   TREE. 

without  much  danger ;  but,  for  that  matter, 
no  man  would  have  stayed  in  the  field  to 
attend  to  another  man's  hay  when  there 
was  a  circus  in  the  neighborhood. 

Dixie  was  mowing  on  alone,  listening  as 
in  a  dream  to  that  subtle  something  in  the 
swish  of  the  scythe  that  makes  one  seek  to 
know  the  song  it  is  singing  to  the  grasses. 

"  Hush,  ah,  hush,  the  scythes  are  saying, 
Hush,  and  heed  not,  and  fall  asleep ; 
Hush,  they  say  to  the  grasses  swaying, 
Hush,  they  sing  to  the  clover  deep ; 
Hush,  —  't  is  the  lullaby  Time  is  singing,  — 
Hush,  and  heed  not,  for  all  things  pass. 
Hush,  ah,  hush  !  and  the  scythes  are  swinging 
Over  the  clover,  over  the  grass." 

And  now,  spent  with  fatigue  and  watch 
ing  and  care  and  grief,  —  heart  sick,  mind 
sick,  body  sick,  sick  with  past  suspense  and 
present  certainty  and  future  dread,  —  he  sat 
under  the  cool  shade  of  the  nooning  tree, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was 
glad  to  be  left  alone  with  his  miseries, — 
glad  that  the  other  men,  friendly  as  he  felt 
them  to  be,  had  gone  to  the  circus,  where  he 
would  not  see  or  hear  them  for  hours  to 
come. 

How  clearly  he  could  conjure  up  the 
scene  that  they  were  enjoying  with  such 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  81 

keen   relish!      Only   two   days   before,   he 
had   walked   among   the    same   tents,   star 
ing  at  horses  and  gay  trappings  and  painted 
Amazons    as  one  who   noted   nothing;   yet 
the  agony  of  the  thing  he  saw  at  last  lit  up 
all  the  rest  as  with  a  lightning  flash,  and 
burned  the  scene  forever  on  his  brain  and 
heart.     It  was  at  Wareham,  too,  —  Ware- 
ham,  where  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife, 
where  she  had  married  him  only  a  year  be 
fore.    How  well  he  remembered  the  night ! 
They  left  the  parsonage ;  they  had  ten  miles 
to  drive  in  the  moonlight  before   reaching 
their  stopping-place,  —  ten  miles  of  such  joy 
as  only  a  man  could  know,  he  thought,  who 
had    had  the  warm   fruit   of   life   hanging 
within  full  vision,  but  just  out  of  reach,  — 
just  above   his  longing  lips  ;    and  then,  in 
an  unlooked-for,  gracious  moment,  his !     He 
could  swear  she  had  loved  him  that  night, 
if  never  again. 

But  this  picture  passed  away,  and  he  saw 
that  maddening  circle  with  the  caracoling 
steeds.  He  heard  the  discordant  music, 
the  monotonous  creak  of  the  machinery,  the 
strident  laughter  of  the  excited  riders.  At 
first  the  thing  was  a  blur,  a  kaleidoscope  of 
whirling  colors,  into  which  there  presently 


82  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

crept  form  and  order.  ...  A  boy  who  had 
cried  to  get  on,  and  was  now  crying  to  get 
off.  ...  Old  Kube  Hobson  and  his  young 
wife  ;  Kube  looking  white  and  scared,  partly 
by  the  whizzing  motion,  and  partly  by  the 
prospect  of  paying  out  ten  cents  for  the 
doubtful  pleasure.  .  .  .  Pretty  Hetty  Dun- 
nell  with  that  young  fellow  from  Portland  ; 
she  too  timid  to  mount  one  of  the  mettle 
some  chargers,  and  snuggling  close  to  him 
in  one  of  the  circling  seats.  Then,  good 
God  T  —  Dell !  sitting  on  a  prancing  white 
horse,  with  the  man  he  knew,  the  man  he 
feared,  riding  beside  her  ;  a  man  who  kept 
holding  011  her  hat  with  fingers  that  trem 
bled,  —  the  very  hat  she  "  'peared  bride 
in ; "  a  man  who  brushed  a  grasshopper 
from  her  shoulder  with  an  air  of  ownership, 
and,  when  she  slapped  his  hand  coquettishly, 
even  dared  to  pinch  her  pink  cheek,  —  his 
wife's  cheek,  —  before  that  crowd  of  on 
lookers!  Merry-go-round,  indeed!  The 
horrible  thing  was  well  named ;  and  life  was 
just  like  it, —  a  whirl  of  happiness  and 
misery,  in  which  the  music  cannot  play  loud 
enough  to  drown  the  creak  of  the  machinery, 
in  which  one  soul  cries  out  in  pain,  another 
in  terror,  and  the  rest  laugh  ;  but  the  pran- 


THE  NOONING   TREE. 

cing  steeds  gallop  on,  gallop  on,  and  once 
mounted,  there  is  no  getting  off,  unless  .  .  . 
There  were  some  things  it  was  not  pos 
sible  for  a  man  to  bear !  The  river !  the 
river!  He  could  hear  it  rippling  over  the 
sunny  sands,  swirling  among  the  logs,  dash 
ing  and  roaring  under  the  bridge,  rushing 
to  the  sea's  embrace.  Could  it  tell  whither 
it  was  hurrying  ?  No  ;  but  it  was  escaping 
from  its  present  bonds  ;  it  would  never  have 
to  pass  over  these  same  jagged  rocks  again. 
"  On,  on  to  the  unknown  I  "  called  the  river. 
"  I  come !  I  come  !  "  he  roused  himself  to 
respond,  when  a  faint,  faint,  helpless  voice 
broke  in  upon  the  mad  clatter  in  his  brain, 
cleaving  his  torn  heart  in  twain  ;  not  a  real 
voice,  —  the  half -forgotten  memory  of  one  ; 
a  tender  wail  that  had  added  fresh  misery 
to  his  night's  vigil,  —  the  baby  ! 

But  the  feeble  pipe  was  borne  down  by 
the  swirl  of  the  water  as  it  dashed  between 
the  rocky  banks,  still  calling  to  him.  If  he 
could  only  close  his  ears  to  it !  But  it  still 
called  —  called  still  —  the  river !  And  still 
the  child's  voice  pierced  the  rush  of  sound 
with  its  pitiful  flute  note,  until  the  two  re 
solved  themselves  into  contesting  strains,  an 
swering  each  other  antiphonally.  The  river 


84  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

—  the  baby  —  the  river  —  the  baby  ;  and 
in  and  through,  and  betwixt  and  between, 
there  spun  the  whirling  merry-go-round, 
with  its  curveting  wooden  horses,  its  dis 
cordant  organ,  and  its  creaking  machinery. 

But  gradually  the  child's  voice  gained  in 
strength,  and  as  he  heard  it  more  plainly 
the  other  sounds  grew  fainter,  till  at  last, 
thank  God!  they  were  hushed.  The  din, 
the  whirlwind,  and  the  tempest  in  his  brain 
were  lulled  into  silence,  as  under  a  "  Peace, 
be  still ! "  and,  worn  out  with  the  contest, 
the  man  from  Tennessee  fell  asleep  under 
the  grateful  shade  of  the  nooning  tree.  So 
deep  was  the  slumber  that  settled  over  ex 
hausted  body  and  troubled  spirit  that  the 
gathering  clouds,  the  sudden  darkness,  the 
distant  muttering  of  thunder,  the  frightened 
twitter  of  the  birds,  passed  unnoticed.  A 
heavy  drop  of  rain  pierced  the  thick  foliage 
and  fell  on  his  face,  but  the  storm  within 
had  been  too  fierce  for  him  to  heed  the 
storm  without.  He  slept  on. 

Almost  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
the  vicinity  of  Pleasant  Kiver  was  on  the 
way  to  the  circus,  —  Boomer's  Grand  Six- 
in-One  Universal  Consolidated  Show;  Bril- 


THE  NOONING   TREE.  85 

Kant  Constellations  of  Fixed  Stars  shining 
in  the  same  Vast  Firmament ;  Glittering 
Galaxies  of  World-Famous  Equestrian  Art 
ists  ;  the  biggest  elephants,  the  funniest 
clowns,  the  pluckiest  riders,  the  stubbornest 
mules,  the  most  amazing  acrobats,  the  tallest 
man  and  the  shortest  man,  the  thinnest  wo 
man  and  the  thickest  woman,  on  the  hab 
itable  globe;  and  no  connection  with  any 
other  show  on  earth,  especially  Sypher's 
Two-in-One  Show  now  devastating  the  same 
State. 

If  the  advertisements  setting  forth  these 
attractions  were  couched  in  language  some 
what  rosier  than  the  facts  would  warrant, 
there  were  few  persons  calm  enough  to  per 
ceive  it,  when  once  the  glamour  of  the  vil 
lage  parade  and  the  smell  of  the  menagerie 
had  intoxicated  the  senses. 

The  circus  had  been  the  sole  topic  of 
conversation  for  a  fortnight.  Jot  Bascom 
could  always  be  relied  on  for  the  latest  and 
most  authentic  news  of  its  triumphant  pro 
gress  from  one  town  to  another.  Jot  was 
a  sort  of  town  crier;  and  whenever  the 
approach  of  a  caravan  was  announced,  he 
would  go  over  on  the  Liberty  road  to  find 
out  just  where  it  was  and  what  were  its  im- 


86  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

mediate  plans,  for  the  thrilling  pleasure  of 
calling  at  every  one  of  the  neighbors'  on 
his  way  home,  and  delivering  his  budget  of 
news.  He  was  an  attendant  at  every  fu 
neral,  and  as  far  as  possible  at  every  wed 
ding,  in  the  village  ;  at  every  flag-raising 
and  husking,  and  town  and  county  fair. 
When  more  pressing  duties  did  not  hinder, 
he  endeavored  to  meet  the  two  daily  trains 
that  passed  through  Milliken's  Mills,  a  mile 
or  two  from  Pleasant  River.  He  accom 
panied  the  sheriff  on  all  journeys  entailing 
serving  of  papers  and  other  embarrassing 
duties  common  to  the  law.  On  one  occa 
sion,  when  the  two  lawyers  of  the  village 
held  an  investigation  before  Trial  Justice 
Simeon  Porter,  they  waited  an  hour  because 
Jot  Bascom  did  not  come.  They  knew 
that  something  was  amiss,  but  it  was  only 
on  reflection  they  remembered  that  Jot  was 
not  indispensable.  He  went  with  all 
paupers  to  the  Poor  Farm,  and  never  missed 
a  town  meeting.  He  knew  all  the  condi 
tions  attending  any  swapping  of  horses  that 
occurred  within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles,  — 
the  terms  of  the  trade  and  the  amount  paid 
to  boot.  He  knew  who  owed  the  fish-man 
and  who  owed  the  meat-man,  and  who  could 


THE   NOONING    TREE.  87 

not  get  trusted  by  either  of  them.  In  fact, 
so  far  as  the  divine  attributes  of  omniscience 
and  omnipresence  could  be  vested  in  a 
faulty  human  creature,  they  were  present 
in  Jot  Bascom.  That  he  was  quite  unable 
to  attend  conscientiously  to  home  duties, 
when  overborne  by  press  of  public  service, 
was  true.  When  Diadema  Bascom  wanted 
kindling  split,  wood  brought  in,  the  cows 
milked,  or  the  pigs  fed,  she  commonly  found 
her  spouse  serving  humanity  in  bulk. 

All  the  details  of  the  approach  of  the 
Grand  Six-in-One  Show  had,  therefore,  been 
heralded  to  those  work-sodden  and  unam 
bitious  persons  who  tied  themselves  to  their 
own  wood-piles  or  haying-fields. 

These  were  the  bulletins  issued  :  — 

The  men  were  making  a  circle  in  the 
Widow  Buz/ell's  field,  in  the  same  place 
where  the  old  one  had  been,  —  the  old  one, 
viewed  with  awe  for  five  years  by  all  the 
village  small  boys. 

The  forerunners,  outriders,  proprietors, 
whatever  they  might  be,  had  arrived  and 
gone  to  the  tavern. 

An  elephant  was  quartered  in  the  tavern 
shed! 

The  elephant  had  stepped  through  the 
floor!! 


88  THE  NOONING    TREE. 

The  advance  guard  of  performers  and  part 
of  the  show  itself  had  come  ! 

And  the  "  Cheriot "  ! ! 

This  far-famed  vehicle  had  paused  on  top 
of  Deacon  Chute's  hill,  to  prepare  for  the 
street  parade.  Little  Jim  Chute  had  been 
gloating  over  the  fact  that  it  must  pass  by 
his  house,  and  when  it  stopped  short  under 
the  elms  in  the  dooryard  his  heart  almost 
broke  for  joy.  He  pinched  the  twenty-five- 
cent  piece  in  his  pocket  to  assure  himself 
that  he  was  alive  and  in  his  right  mind. 
The  precious  coin  had  been  the  result  of  care 
ful  saving,  and  his  hot,  excited  hands  had 
almost  worn  it  thin.  But  alas  for  the  vanity 
of  human  hopes !  When  the  magnificent 
red-and-gold  "  Cheriot "  was  uncovered,  that 
its  glories  might  shine  upon  the  waiting 
world,  the  door  opened,  and  a  huddle  of 
painted  Indians  tumbled  out,  ready  to  lead 
the  procession,  or,  if  so  disposed,  to  scalp  the 
neighborhood.  Little  Jim  gave  one  panic- 
stricken  look  as  they  leaped  over  the  chariot 
steps,  and  then  fled  to  the  barn  chamber, 
whence  he  had  to  be  dragged  by  his  mother, 
dnd  cuffed  into  willingness  to  attend  the  spec 
tacle  that  had  once  so  dazzled  his  imagina 
tion. 


THE  NOONING    TREE.  89 

On  the  eventful  afternoon  of  the  perform 
ance  the  road  was  gay  with  teams.  David 
and  Samantha  Milliken  drove  by  in  Miss 
Cummins'  neat  carryall,  two  children  on  the 
back  seat,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  baby  girl  held 
down  by  a  serious  boy.  Steve  Webster  was 
driving  Doxy  Morton  in  his  mother's  buggy. 
Jabe  Slocum,  Pitt  Packard,  Brad  Gibson, 
Cyse  Higgins,  and  scores  of  others  were  rid 
ing  "  shank's  mare,"  as  they  would  have 
said. 

It  had  been  a  close,  warm  day,  and  as 
the  afternoon  wore  away  it  grew  hotter  and 
closer.  There  was  a  dead  calm  in  the  air, 
a  threatening  blackness  in  the  west  that  made 
the  farmers  think  anxiously  of  their  hay. 
Presently  the  thunderheads  ran  together 
into  big  black  clouds,  which  melted  in  turn 
into  molten  masses  of  smoky  orange,  so 
that  the  heavens  were  like  burnished  brass. 
Drivers  whipped  up  their  horses,  and  pedes 
trians  hastened  their  steps.  Steve  Webster 
decided  not  to  run  even  the  smallest  risk  of 
injuring  so  precious  a  commodity  as  Doxy 
Morton  by  a  shower  of  rain,  so  he  drove 
into  a  friend's  yard,  put  up  his  horse,  and 
waited  till  the  storm  should  pass  by.  Brad 
Gibson  stooped  to  drink  at  a  wayside  brook, 


90  THE   NOONING    TREE. 

and  as  he  bent  over  the  water  he  heard  a  low, 
murmuring,  muttering  sound  that  seemed  to 
make  the  earth  tremble. 

Then  from  hill  to  hill  "  leapt  the  live  thun 
der."  Even  the  distant  mountains  seemed 
to  have  "  found  a  tongue."  A  zigzag  chain 
of  lightning  flashed  in  the  lurid  sky,  and 
after  an  appreciable  interval  another  peal, 
louder  than  the  first,  and  nearer. 

The  rain  began  to  fall,  the  forked  flashes 
of  flame  darted  hither  and  thither  in  the 
clouds,  and  the  boom  of  heaven's  artillery 
grew  heavier  and  heavier.  The  blinding 
sheets  of  light  and  the  tumultuous  roar  of 
sound  now  followed  each  other  so  quickly 
that  they  seemed  almost  simultaneous. 
Flash  —  crash  —  flash  —  crash  —  flash  — 
crash ;  blinding  and  deafening  eye  and  ear 
at  once.  Everybody  who  could  find  a  shel 
ter  of  any  sort  hastened  to  it.  The  women 
at  home  set  their  children  in  the  midst  of 
feather  beds,  and  some  of  them  even  huddled 
there  themselves,  their  babies  clinging  to 
them  in  sympathetic  fear,  as  the  livid  shafts 
of  light  illuminated  the  dark  rooms  with 
more  than  noonday  glare. 

The  air  was  full  of  gloom ;  a  nameless  ter 
ror  lurked  within  it ;  the  elements  seemed 


THE  NOONING   TREE.  91 

at  war  with  each  other.  Horses  whinnied 
in  the  stables,  and  colts  dashed  about  the 
pastures.  The  cattle  sought  sheltered  places ; 
the  cows  ambling  clumsily  towards  some 
refuge,  their  full  bags  dripping  milk  as  they 
swung  heavily  to  and  fro.  The  birds  flew 
towards  the  orchards  and  the  deep  woods  ; 
the  swallows  swooped  restlessly  round  the 
barns,  and  hid  themselves  under  the  eaves 
or  in  the  shadow  of  deserted  nests. 

The  rain  now  fell  in  sheets. 

"  Hurry  up  V  git  under  cover,  Jabe,"  said 
Brad  Gibson ;  "  you  're  jest  the  kind  of  a 
pole  to  draw  lightnin' !  " 

"You  hain't,  then!"  retorted  Jabe. 
"  There  ain't  enough  o'  you  fer  lightnin' 
to  ketch  holt  of !  " 

Suddenly  a  ghastly  streak  of  light  leaped 
out  of  a  cloud,  and  then  another,  till  the 
sky  seemed  lit  up  by  cataracts  of  flame.  A 
breath  of  wind  sprang  into  the  still  air. 
Then  a  deafening  crash,  clap,  crack,  roar, 
peal!  and  as  Jabe  Slocum  looked  out  of 
a  protecting  shed  door,  he  saw  a  fiery  ball 
burst  from  the  clouds,  shooting  brazen 
arrows  as  it  fell.  Within  the  instant  the 
meeting-house  steeple  broke  into  a  tongue  of 
flame,  and  then,  looking  towards  home,  he 


92  THE  NOONING   TREE. 

fancied  that  the  fireball  dropped  to  earth 
in  Squire  Bean's  meadow. 

The  wind  blew  more  fiercely  now.  There 
was  a  sudden  crackling  of  wood,  falling  of 
old  timbers,  and  breaking  of  glass.  The 
deadly  fluid  ran  in  a  winding  course  down  a 
great  maple  by  the  shed,  leaving  a  narrow 
charred  channel  through  the  bark  to  tell 
how  it  passed  to  the  earth.  A  sombre  pine 
stood  up,  black  and  burned,  its  heart  gaping 
through  a  ghastly  wound  in  the  split  trunk. 

The  rain  now  subsided  ;  there  was  only 
an  occasional  faint  rumbling  of  thunder,  as 
if  it  were  murmuring  over  the  distant  sea ; 
the  clouds  broke  away  in  the  west ;  the  sun 
peeped  out,  as  if  to  see  what  had  been 
going  on  in  the  world  since  he  hid  himself 
an  hour  before.  A  delicate  rainbow  bridge 
stretched  from  the  blackened  church  stee 
ple  to  the  glittering  weathercock  on  the 
squire's  barn ;  and  there,  in  the  centre  of 
the  fair  green  meadows  from  which  it  had 
risen  in  glorious  strength  and  beauty  for  a 
century  or  more,  lay  the  n6oning  tree. 

The  fireball,  if  ball  of  fire  indeed  there 
wtere,  had  struck  in  the  very  centre  of  its 
splendid  dome,  and  ploughed  its  way  from 
feather  tip  to  sturdy  root,  riving  the  tree  in 


TEE  NOONING   TREE.  93 

twain,  cleaving  its  great  boughs  left  and 
right,  laying  one  majestic  half  level  with  the 
earth,  and  bending  the  other  till  the  proud 
head  almost  touched  the  grass. 

The  rainbow  was  reflected  in  the  million 
drops  glittering  upon  the  bowed  branches, 
turning  each  into  a  tear  of  liquid  opal.  The 
birds  hopped  on  the  prone  magnificence,  and 
eyed  timorously  a  strange  object  underneath. 

There  had  been  one  swift,  pitiless,  merci 
ful  stroke  !  The  monarch  of  the  meadow 
would  never  again  feel  the  magic  thrill  of  the 
sap  in  its  veins,  nor  the  bursting  of  brown 
bud  into  green  leaf. 

The  birds  would  build  their  nests  and  sing 
their  idyls  in  other  boughs.  The  "  time  of 
pleasure  and  love  "  was  over  with  the  noon 
ing  tree ;  over,  too,  with  him  who  slept  be 
neath;  for  under  its  fallen  branches,  with 
the  light  of  a  great  peace  in  his  upturned 
face,  lay  the  man  from  Tennessee. 


THE  FOKE-KOOM  RUG. 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

DIADEMA,  wife  of  Jot  Bascom,  was  sitting 
at  the  window  of  the  village  watch-tower,  so 
called  because  it  commanded  a  view  of  nearly 
everything  that  happened  in  Pleasant  River ; 
those  details  escaping  the  physical  eye  being 
supplied  by  faith  and  imagination  working 
in  the  light  of  past  experience.  She  sat  in 
the  chair  of  honor,  the  chair  of  choice,  the 
high-backed  rocker  by  the  southern  window, 
in  which  her  husband's  mother,  old  Mrs. 
Bascom,  had  sat  for  thirty  years,  applying  a 
still  more  powerful  intellectual  telescope  to 
the  doings  of  her  neighbors.  Diadema's  seat 
had  formerly  been  on  the  less  desirable  side 
of  the  little  light-stand,  where  Priscilla  Hollis 
was  now  installed. 

Mrs.  Bascom  was  at  work  on  a  new  fore- 
room  rug,  the  former  one  having  been  trans 
ferred  to  Miss  Hollis' s  chamber ;  for,  as  the 
teacher  at  the  brick  schoolhouse,  a  graduate 
of  a  Massachusetts  normal  school,  and  the 
daughter  of  a  deceased  judge,  she  was  a 


98  THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG, 

boarder  of  considerable  consequence.  It 
was  a  rainy  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  two 
women  were  alone.  It  was  a  pleasant,  peace 
ful  sitting-room,  as  neat  as  wax  in  every 
part.  The  floor  was  covered  by  a  cheerful 
patriotic  rag  carpet  woven  entirely  of  red, 
white,  and  blue  rags,  and  protected  in  vari 
ous  exposed  localities  by  button  rugs,  —  red, 
white,  and  blue  disks  superimposed  one  on 
the  other. 

Diadema  Bascom  was  a  person  of  some 
sentiment.  When  her  old  father,  Captain 
Dennett,  was  dying,  he  drew  a  wallet  from 
under  his  pillow,  and  handed  her  a  twenty- 
dollar  bill  to  get  something  to  remember  him 
by.  This  unwonted  occurrence  burned  itself 
into  the  daughter's  imagination,  and  when 
she  came  as  a  bride  to  the  Bascom  house  she 
refurnished  the  sitting-room  as  a  kind  of 
monument  to  the  departed  soldier,  whose 
sword  and  musket  were  now  tied  to  the  wall 
with  neatly  hemmed  bows  of  bright  red  cot 
ton. 

The  chair  cushions  were  of  red-and-white 
glazed  patch,  the  turkey  wings  that  served 
as  hearth  brushes  were  hung  against  the 
white-painted  chimney-piece  with  blue  skirt 
braid,  and  the  white  shades  were  finished 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  99 

with  home-made  scarlet  "  tossels."  A  little 
whatnot  in  one  corner  was  laden  with  the 
trophies  of  battle.  The  warrior's  brass  but 
tons  were  strung  on  a  red  picture  cord  and 
hung  over  his  daguerreotype  on  the  upper 
shelf  ;  there  was  a  tarnished  shoulder  strap, 
and  a  flattened  bullet  that  the  captain's  jeal 
ous  contemporaries  swore  he  never  stopped, 
unless  he  got  it  in  the  rear  when  he  was  fly 
ing  from  the  foe.  There  was  also  a  little  tin 
canister  in  which  a  charge  of  powder  had 
been  sacredly  preserved.  The  scoffers,  again, 
said  that  "  the  cap'n  put  it  in  his  musket 
when  he  went  into  the  war,  and  kep'  it  there 
till  he  come  out."  These  objects  were  taste 
fully  decorated  with  the  national  colors.  In 
fact,  no  modern  aesthete  could  have  arranged 
a  symbolic  symphony  of  grief  and  glory  with 
any  more  fidelity  to  an  ideal  than  Diadema 
Bascom,  in  working  out  her  scheme  of  red, 
white,  and  blue. 

Eows  of  ripening  tomatoes  lay  along  the 
ledges  of  the  windows,  and  a  tortoise-shell 
cat  snoozed  on  one  of  the  broad  sills.  The 
tall  clock  in  the  corner  ticked  peacefully. 
Priscilla  Hollis  never  tired  of  looking  at  the 
jolly  red-cheeked  moon,  the  group  of  stars 
on  a  blue  ground,  the  trig  little  ship,  the  old 


100  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

house,  and  the  jolly  moon  again,  creeping 
one  after  another  across  the  open  space  at 
the  top. 

Jot  Bascom  was  out,  as  usual,  gathering 
statistics  of  the  last  horse  trade ;  little  Jot 
was  building  "  stickin'  "  houses  in  the  barn ; 
Priscilla  was  sewing  long  strips  for  braid 
ing  ;  while  Diadema  sat  at  the  dra wing-in 
frame,  hook  in  hand,  and  a  large  basket  of 
cut  rags  by  her  side. 

Not  many  weeks  before  she  had  paid  one 
of  her  periodical  visits  to  the  attic.  No 
housekeeper  in  Pleasant  Kiver  save  Mrs. 
Jonathan  Bascom  would  have  thought  of 
dusting  a  garret,  washing  the  window  and 
sweeping  down  the  cobwebs  once  a  month, 
and  renewing  the  camphor  bags  in  the  chests 
twice  a  year ;  but  notwithstanding  this  zeal 
ous  care  the  moths  had  made  their  way  into 
one  of  her  treasure-houses,  the  most  precious 
of  all,  —  the  old  hair  trunk  that  had  belonged 
to  her  sister  Lovice.  Once  ensconced  there, 
they  had  eaten  through  its  hoarded  relics, 
and  reduced  the  faded  finery  to  a  state  best 
described  by  Diadema  as  "  reg'lar  riddlin' 
sieves."  She  had  brought  the  tattered  pile 
down  into  the  kitchen,  and  had  spent  a  tear 
ful  afternoon  in  cutting  the  good  pieces  from 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  101 

the  perforated  garments.  Three  heaped-up 
baskets  and  a  full  dish-pan  were  the  result ; 
and  as  she  had  snipped  and  cut  and  sorted, 
one  of  her  sentimental  projects  had  entered 
her  mind  and  taken  complete  possession 
there. 

"I  declare,"  she  said,  as  she  drew  her 
hooking-needle  in  and  out,  "  I  would  n't  set 
in  the  room  with  some  folks  and  work  on 
these  pieces  ;  for  every  time  I  draw  in  a 
scrap  of  cloth  Lovice  comes  up  to  me  for  all 
the  world  as  if  she  was  settin'  on  the  sofy 
there.  I  ain't  told  you  my  plan,  Miss  Hol- 
lis,  and  there  ain't  many  I  shall  tell ;  but 
this  rug  is  going  to  be  a  kind  of  a  hist'ry  of 
my  life  and  Lovey's  wrought  in  together, 
just  as  we  was  bound  up  in  one  another 
when  she  was  alive.  Her  things  and  mine 
was  laid  in  one  trunk,  and  the  moths  sha'n't 
cheat  me  out  of  'em  altogether.  If  I  can't 
look  at  'em  wet  Sundays,  and  shake  'em  out, 
and  have  a  good  cry  over  'em,  I  '11  make  'em 
up  into  a  kind  of  dumb  show  that  will  mean 
something  to  me,  if  it  don't  to  anybody 
else. 

"  We  was  the  youngest  of  thirteen,  Lovey 
and  I,  and  we  was  twins.  There's  never 
been  more  'n  half  o'  me  left  sence  she  died. 


102  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

We  was  born  together,  played  and  went  to 
school  together,  got  engaged  and  married 
together,  and  we  all  but  died  together,  yet 
we  wa'n't  a  mite  alike.  There  was  an  old 
lady  come  to  our  house  once  that  used  to 
say,  '  There  's  sister  Nabby,  now :  she  V  I 
ain't  no  more  alike  'n  if  we  wa'n't  two; 
she 's  jest  as  dif 'rent  as  I  am  t'  other  way.' 
Well,  I  know  what  I  want  to  put  into  my 
rag  story,  Miss  Hollis,  but  I  don't  hardly 
know  how  to  begin." 

Priscilla  dropped  her  needle,  and  bent 
over  the  frame  with  interest. 

"  A  spray  of  two  roses  in  the  centre,  — 
there  's  the  beginning ;  why,  don't  you  see, 
dear  Mrs.  Bascom  ?  " 

"  Course  I  do,"  said  Diadema,  diving  to 
the  bottom  of  the  dish-pan.  "  I  've  got  my 
start  now,  and  don't  you  say  a  word  for  a 
minute.  The  two  roses  grow  out  of  one 
stalk ;  they  '11  be  Lovey  and  me,  though  I  'm 
consid'able  more  like  a  potato  blossom.  The 
stalk 's  got  to  be  green,  and  here  is  the  very 
green  silk  mother  walked  bride  in,  and  Lovey 
and  I  had  roundabouts  of  it  afterwards. 
She  had  the  chicken-pox  when  we  was  about 
four  years  old,  and  one  of  the  first  things 
I  can  remember  is  climbing  up  and  look- 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG.  103 

ing  over  mother's  footboard  at  Lovey,  all 
speckled.  Mother  had  let  her  slip  on  her 
new  green  roundabout  over  her  nightgown, 
just  to  pacify  her,  and  there  she  set  playing 
with  the  kitten  Eeuben  Granger  had  brought 
her.  He  was  only  ten  years  old  then,  but 
he  'd  begun  courting  Lovice. 

"  The  Grangers'  farm  joined  ours.  They 
had  eleven  children,  and  mother  and  father 
had  thirteen,  and  we  was  always  playing 
together.  Mother  used  to  tell  a  funny  story 
about  that.  We  were  all  little  young  ones 
and  looked  pretty  much  alike,  so  she  did  n't 
take  much  notice  of  us  in  the  daytime  when 
we  was  running  out  'n'  in ;  but  at  night, 
when  the  turn-up  bedstead  in  the  kitchen 
was  taken  down  and  the  trundle-beds  were 
full,  she  used  to  count  us  over,  to  see  if 
we  were  all  there.  One  night,  when  she  'd 
counted  thirteen  and  set  down  to  her  sew 
ing,  father  come  in  and  asked  if  Moses 
was  all  right,  for  one  of  the  neighbors  had 
seen  him  playing  side  of  the  river  about 
supper-time.  Mother  knew  she  'd  counted 
us  straight,  but  she  went  round  with  a  can 
dle  to  make  sure.  Now,  Mr.  Granger  had 
a  head  as  red  as  a  shumac  bush ;  and  when 
she  carried  the  candle  close  to  the  beds  to 


104  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

take  another  tally,  there  was  thirteen  chil 
dren,  sure  enough,  but  if  there  wa'n't  a  red 
headed  Granger  right  in  amongst  our  boys 
in  the  turn-up  bedstead  !  While  father  set 
out  on  a  hunt  for  our  Moses,  mother  yanked 
the  sleepy  little  red-headed  Granger  out  o' 
the  middle  and  took  him  home,  and  father 
found  Moses  asleep  on  a  pile  of  shavings 
under  the  joiner's  bench. 

"  They  don't  have  such  families  nowadays. 
One  time  when  measles  went  all  over  the 
village,  they  never  came  to  us,  and  Jabe 
Slocum  said  there  wa'n't  enough  measles  to 
go  through  the  Dennett  family,  so  they 
did  n't  start  in  on  'em.  There,  I  ain't  going 
to  finish  the  stalk ;  I  'm  going  to  draw  in  a 
little  here  and  there  all  over  the  rug,  while 
I  'm  in  the  sperit  of  plannin'  it,  and  then  it 
will  be  plain  work  of  matching  colors  and 
filling  out. 

"  You  see  the  stalk  is  mother's  dress,  and 
the  outside  green  of  the  moss  roses  is  the 
same  goods,  only  it  's  our  roundabouts.  I 
meant  to  make  'em  red,  when  I  marked  the 
pattern,  and  then  fill  out  round  'em  with  a 
light  color ;  but  now  I  ain't  satisfied  with 
anything  but  white,  for  nothing  will  do  in 
the  middle  of  the  rug  but  our  white  wedding 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG.  105 

dresses.  I  shall  have  to  fill  in  dark,  then, 
or  mixed.  Well,  that  won't  be  out  of  the 
way,  if  it 's  going  to  be  a  true  rag  story ; 
for  Lovey's  life  went  out  altogether,  and 
mine  has  n't  been  any  too  gay. 

"  I  '11  begin  Lovey's  rose  first.  She  was 
the  prettiest  and  the  liveliest  girl  in  the  vil 
lage,  and  she  had  more  beaux  than  you  could 
shake  a  stick  at.  I  generally  had  to  take 
what  she  left  over.  Reuben  Granger  was 
crazy  about  her  from  the  time  she  was  knee- 
high  ;  but  when  he  went  away  to  Bangor  to 
study  for  the  ministry,  the  others  had  it  all 
their  own  way.  She  was  only  seventeen  ; 
she  hadn't  ever  experienced  religion,  and 
she  was  mischeevous  as  a  kitten. 

"  You  remember  you  laughed,  this  morn 
ing,  when  Mr.  Bascom  told  about  Hogshead 
Jowett?  Well,  he  used  to  want  to  keep 
company  with  Lovey ;  but  she  could  n't 
abide  him,  and  whenever  he  come  to  court 
her  she  clim'  into  a  hogshead,  and  hid  till 
after  he  'd  gone.  The  boys  found  it  out, 
and  used  to  call  him  'Hogshead  Jowett.' 
He  was  the  biggest  fool  in  Foxboro'  Four 
Corners  ;  and  that 's  saying  consid'able,  for 
Foxboro'  is  famous  for  its  fools,  and  always 
has  been.  There  was  thirteen  of  'em  there 


106  THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

one  year.  They  say  a  man  come  out  from 
Portland,  and  when  he  got  as  fur  as  Fox- 
boro'  he  kep'  inquiring  the  way  to  Dun- 
stan ;  and  I  declare  if  he  did  n't  meet  them 
thirteen  fools,  one  after  another,  standing  in 
their  front  dooryards  ready  to  answer  ques 
tions.  When  he  got  to  Dunstan,  says  he, 
'  For  the  Lord's  sake,  what  kind  of  a  village 
is  it  that  I  've  just  went  through  ?  Be  they 
all  fools  there  ? ' 

"Hogshead  was  scairt  to  death  whenever 
he  come  to  see  Lovice.  One  night,  when 
he  'd  been  there  once,  and  she  'd  hid,  as  she 
always  done,  he  come  back  a  second  time, 
and  she  went  to  the  door,  not  mistrusting  it 
was  him.  '  Did  you  forget  anything?  '  says 
she,  sparkling  out  at  him  through  a  little 
crack.  He  was  all  taken  aback  by  seeing 
her,  and  he  stammered  out,  '  Yes,  I  forgot 
my  han'k'chief ;  but  it  don't  make  no  odds, 
for  I  did  n't  pay  out  but  fifteen  cents  for  it 
two  year  ago,  and  I  don't  make  no  use  of  it 
'ceptins  to  wipe  my  nose  on.'  How  we  did 

lauo;h  over  that !    Well,  he  had  a  conviction 

& 

of  sin  pretty  soon  afterwards,  and  p'r'aps  it 

helped  his  head  some ;  at  any  rate,  he  quit 

farming,  and  become  a  Bullockite  preacher. 

"It   seems   odd,   when   Lovice   wa'n't   a 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG.  107 

perfessor  herself,  she  should  have  drawed 
the  most  pious  young  men  in  the  village, 
but  she  did :  she  had  good  Orthodox  beaux, 
Free  and  Close  Baptists,  Millerites  and  Ad- 
ventists,  all  on  her  string  together ;  she  even 
had  one  Cochranite,  though  the  sect  had 
mostly  died  out.  But  when  Reuben  Granger 
come  home,  a  full-feathered-out  minister, 
he  seemed  to  strike  her  fancy  as  he  never 
had  before,  though  they  were  always  good 
friends  from  children.  He  had  light  hair 
and  blue  eyes  and  fair  skin  (his  business 
being  under  cover  kep'  him  bleached  out), 
and  he  and  Lovey  made  the  prettiest  couple 
you  ever  see;  for  she  was  dark  complected, 
and  her  cheeks  no  otherways  than  scarlit 
the  whole  durin'  time.  She  had  a  change 
of  heart  that  winter ;  in  fact,  she  had  two  of 
'em,  for  she  changed  hers  for  Reuben's,  and 
found  a  hope  at  the  same  time.  'T  was  a 
good  honest  conversion,  too,  though  she  did 
say  to  me  she  was  afraid  that  if  Reuben 
hadn't  taught  her  what  love  was  or  might 
be,  she  'd  never  have  found  out  enough 
about  it  to  love  God  as  she  'd  ought  to. 

"  There,  I  've  begun  both  roses,  and  hers 
is  'bout  finished.  I  sha'n't  have  more  'n 
enough  white  alapaca.  It 's  lucky  the  moths 


108  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

spared  one  breadth  of  the  wedding  dresses; 
we  was  married  on  the  same  day,  you  know, 
and  dressed  just  alike.  Jot  wa'n't  quite 
ready  to  be  married,  for  he  wa'n't  any  more 
forehanded  'bout  that  than  he  was  'bout 
other  things;  but  I  told  him  Lovey  and  I 
had  kept  up  with  each  other  from  the  start, 
and  he  'd  got  to  fall  into  line  or  drop  out  o' 
the  percession.  —  Now  what  next?" 

"Wasn't  there  anybody  at  the  wedding 
but  you  and  Lovice?  "  asked  Priscilla,  with 
an  amused  smile. 

"  Land,  yes !  The  meeting-house  was  cram 
jam  full.  Oh,  to  be  sure!  I  know  what 
you're  driving  at!  Well,  I  have  to  laugh 
to  think  I  should  have  forgot  the  husbands ! 
They'll  have  to  be  worked  into  the  story, 
certain ;  but  it  '11  be  consid'able  of  a  chore, 
for  I  can't  make  flowers  out  of  coat  and 
pants  stuff,  and  there  ain't  any  more  flowers 
on  this  branch,  anyway." 

Diadema  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  rapt 
thought,  and  then  made  a  sudden  inspired 
dash  upstairs,  where  Miss  Hollis  presently 
heard  her  rummaging  in  an  old  chest.  She 
soon  came  down,  triumphant. 

"  Wa'n't  it  a  providence  I  saved  Jot's  and 
Reuben's  wedding  ties !  And  here  they  are, 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  109 

—  one  yellow  and  green  mixed,  and  one 
brown.  Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to 
do  ?  I  'm  going  to  draw  in  a  butterfly  hov 
ering  over  them  two  roses,  and  make  it  out 
of  the  neckties,  —  green  with  brown  spots. 
That  '11  bring  in  the  husbands ;  and  land !  I 
would  n't  have  either  of  'em  know  it  for  the 
world.  I  '11  take  a  pattern  of  that  lunar 
moth  you  pinned  on  the  curtain  yester 
day." 

Miss  Hollis  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 
"You  have  some  very  ingenious  ideas  and 
some  very  pretty  thoughts,  Mrs.  Bascom,  do 
you  know  it?  " 

"It's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  tell  of 
it,"  said  Diadema  cheerfully.  "Lovey  was 
the  pretty-spoken,  pretty-appearing  one;  I 
was  always  plain  and  practical.  While  I 
think  of  it,  I  '11  draw  in  a  little  mite  of  this 
red  into  my  carnation  pink.  It  was  a  red 
scarf  Keuben  brought  Lovey  from  Portland. 
It  was  the  first  thing  he  ever  give  her,  and 
aunt  Hitty  said  if  one  of  the  Abel  Grangers 
give  away  anything  that  cost  money,  it 
meant  business.  That  was  all  fol-de-rol, 
for  there  never  was  a  more  liberal  husband, 
though  he  was  a  poor  minister;  but  then 
they  always  are  poor,  without  they  're  rich ; 


110  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

there  don't  seem  to  be  any  halfway  in  min 
isters. 

"We  was  both  lucky  that  way.  There 
ain't  a  stingy  bone  in  Jot  Bascom's  body. 
He  don't  make  much  money,  but  what  he 
does  make  goes  into  the  bureau  drawer,  and 
the  one  that  needs  it  most  takes  it  out.  He 
never  asks  me  what  I  done  with  the  last 
five  cents  he  give  me.  You  've  never  been 
married,  Miss  Hollis,  and  you  ain't  engaged, 
so  you  don't  know  much  about  it ;  but  I  tell 
you  there 's  a  heap  o'  foolishness  talked 
about  husbands.  If  you  get  the  one  you 
like  yourself,  I  don't  know  as  it  matters  if 
all  the  other  women  folks  in  town  don't 
happen  to  like  him  as  well  as  you  do ;  they 
ain't  called  on  to  do  that.  They  see  the 
face  he  turns  to  them,  not  the  one  he  turns 
to  you.  Jot  ain't  a  very  good  provider,  nor 
he  ain't  a  man  that's  much  use  round  a 
farm,  but  he  's  such  a  fav'rite  I  can't  blame 
him.  There  's  one  thing :  when  he  does 
come  home  he 's  got  something  to  say,  and 
he 's  always  as  lively  as  a  cricket,  and  smil 
ing  as  a  basket  of  chips.  I  like  a  man  that 's 
good  comp'ny,  even  if  he  ain't  so  fore 
handed.  There  ain't  anything  specially 
lovable  about  forehandedness,  when  you 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG.  Ill 

come  to  that.  I  should  n't  ever  feel  clrawed 
to  a  man  because  he  was  on  time  with  his 
work.  He 's  got  such  pleasant  ways,  Jot 
has !  The  other  afternoon  he  did  n't  get 
home  early  enough  to  milk;  and  after  I 
done  the  two  cows,  I  split  the  kindling  and 
brought  in  the  wood,  for  I  knew  he  'd  want 
to  go  to  the  tavern  and  tell  the  boys  'bout 
the  robbery  up  to  Boylston.  There  ain't 
anybody  but  Jot  in  this  village  that  has  wit 
enough  to  find  out  what 's  going  on,  and  tell 
it  in  an  int'resting  way  round  the  tavern 
fire.  And  he  can  do  it  without  being  full 
of  cider,  too;  he  don't  need  any  apple  juice 
to  limber  his  tongue ! 

"Well,  when  he  come  in,  he  see  the  pails 
of  milk,  and  the  full  wood-box,  and  the 
supper  laid  out  under  the  screen  cloth  on 
the  kitchen  table,  and  he  come  up  to  me  at 
the  sink,  and  says  he,  'Diademy,  you're 
the  best  wife  in  this  county,  and  the  bright 
est  jewel  in  my  crown,  —  that 's  what  you 
are ! '  (He  got  that  idea  out  of  a  duet  he 
sings  with  Almiry  Berry.)  Now  I  'd  like 
to  know  whether  that  ain't  pleasanter  than 
't  is  to  have  a  man  do  all  the  shed  V  barn 
work  up  smart,  and  then  set  round  the 
stove  looking  as  doleful  as  a  last  year's 


112  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

bircTs-nest?  Take  my  advice,  Miss  Hollis: 
get  a  good  provider  if  you  can,  but  anyhow 
try  to  find  you  a  husband  that  '11  keep  on 
courting  a  little  now  and  then,  when  he 
ain't  too  busy;  it  smooths  things  consid'- 
able  round  the  house. 

"There,  I  got  so  int'rested  in  what  I  was 
saying,  I  've  went  on  and  finished  the  carna 
tion,  and  some  of  the  stem,  too.  Now  what 
comes  next?  Why,  the  thing  that  happened 
next,  of  course,  and  that  was  little  Jot. 

"  1 11  work  in  a  bud  on  my  rose  and  one 
on  Lovey's,  and  my  bud  '11  be  made  of  Jot's 
first  trousers.  The  goods  ain't  very  appro 
priate  for  a  rosebud,  but  it  '11  be  mostly  cov 
ered  with  green  on  the  outside,  and  it  '11 
have  to  do,  for  the  idee  is  the  most  impor 
tant  thing  in  this  rug.  When  I  put  him 
into  pants,  I  had  n't  any  cloth  in  the  house, 
and  it  was  such  bad  going  Jot  could  n't  get 
to  Wareham  to  buy  me  anything ;  so  I  made 
'em  out  of  an  old  gray  cashmere  skirt,  and 
lined  'em  with  flannel." 

"Buds  are  generally  the  same  color  as 
the  roses,  aren't  they ?"  ventured  Priscilla. 

"I  don't  care  if  they  be,"  said  Diadema 
obstinately.  "  What 's  to  hender  this  bud's 
bein'  grafted  on?  Mrs.  Granger  was  as 


THE  FORE-ROOM  RUG.  113 

black  as  an  Injun,  but  the  little  Granger 
children  were  all  red-headed,  for  they  took 
after  their  father.  But  I  don't  know ;  you  've 
kind  o'  got  me  out  o'  conceit  with  it.  I  s'pose 
I  could  have  taken  a  piece  of  his  baby  blan 
ket;  but  the  moths  never  et  a  mite  o'  that, 
and  it 's  too  good  to  cut  up.  There  's  one 
thing  I  can  do :  I  can  make  the  bud  with  a 
long  stem,  and  have  it  growing  right  up 
alongside  of  mine,  — would  you?" 

"  No,  it  must  be  stalk  of  your  stalk,  bone 
of  your  bone,  flesh  of  your  flesh,  so  to 
speak.  I  agree  with  you,  the  idea  is  the 
first  thing.  Besides,  the  gray  is  a  very 
light  shade,  and  I  dare  say  it  will  look  like 
a  bluish  white." 

"  I  '11  try  it  and  see ;  but  I  wish  to  the 
land  the  moths  had  eat  the  pinning-blanket, 
and  then  I  could  have  used  it.  Lovey 
worked  the  scallops  on  the  aidge  for  me. 
My  grief!  what  int'rest  she  took  in  my 
baby  clothes!  Little  Jot  was  born  at 
Thanksgiving  time,  and  she  come  over  from 
jSkowhegan,  where  Reuben  was  settled  pas 
tor  of  his  first  church.  I  shall  never  forget 
them  two  weeks  to  the  last  day  of  my  life. 
There  was  deep  snow  on  the  ground.  I 
had  that  chamber  there,  with  the  door  open- 


114  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

ing  into  this  setting-room.  Mother  and 
father  Bascom  kep'  out  in  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen,  where  the  work  was  going  on, 
and  Lovey  and  the  baby  and  me  had  the 
front  part  of  the  house  to  ourselves,  with 
Jot  coming  in  on  tiptoe,  heaping  up  wood 
in  the  fireplaces  so  't  he  'most  roasted  us 
out.  He  don't  forget  his  chores  in  time  o' 
sickness. 

"I  never  took  so  much  comfort  in  all  my 
days.  Jot  got  one  of  the  Billings  girls  to 
come  over  and  help  in  the  housework,  so  't 
I  could  lay  easy  's  long  as  I  wanted  to;  and 
I  never  had  such  a  rest  before  nor  since. 
There  ain't  any  heaven  in  the  book  o'  Keve- 
lations  that  's  any  better  than  them  two 
weeks  was.  I  used  to  lay  quiet  in  my  good 
feather  bed,  fingering  the  pattern  of  my 
best  crochet  quilt,  and  looking  at  the  fire 
light  shining  on  Lovey  and  the  baby.  She  'd 
hardly  leave  him  in  the  cradle  a  minute. 
When  I  didn't  want  him  in  bed  with  me, 
she  'd  have  him  in  her  lap.  Babies  are 
common  enough  to  most  folks,  but  Lovey 
was  diff'rent.  She  'd  never  had  any  experi 
ence  with  children,  either,  for  we  was  the 
youngest  in  our  family;  and  it  wa'n't  long 
before  we  come  near  being  the  oldest,  too, 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  115 

for  mother  buried  seven  of  us  before  she 
went  herself.  Anyway,  I  never  saw  nobody 
else  look  as  she  done  when  she  held  my 
baby.  I  don't  mean  nothing  blasphemious 
when  I  say  'twas  for  all  the  world  like  your 
photograph  of  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus. 

"The  nights  come  in  early,  so  it  was 
'most  dark  at  four  o'clock.  The  little  cham 
ber  was  so  peaceful !  I  could  hear  Jot  rat 
tling  the  milk-pails,  but  I  'd  draw  a  deep 
breath  o'  comfort,  for  I  knew  the  milk  would 
be  strained  and  set  away  without  my  step 
ping  foot  to  the  floor.  Lovey  used  to  set 
by  the  fire,  with  a  tall  candle  on  the  light- 
stand  behind  her,  and  a  little  white  knit 
cape  over  her  shoulders.  She  had  the  pink 
est  cheeks,  and  the  longest  eyelashes,  and 
a  mouth  like  a  little  red  buttonhole;  and 
when  she  bent  over  the  baby,  and  sung  to 
him,  —  though  his  ears  wa'n't  open,  I 
guess,  for  his  eyes  wa'n't,  —  the  tears  o' 
joy  used  to  rain  down  my  cheeks.  It  was 
pennyrial  hymns  she  used  to  sing  mostly, 
and  the  one  I  remember  best  was 

"  '  Daniel's  wisdom  may  I  know, 
Stephen's  faith  and  spirit  show  ; 
John's  divine  communion  feel, 
Moses'  meekness,  Joshua's  zeal, 
Run  like  the  unwearied  Paul, 
Win  the  day  and  conquer  all. 


116  TUB   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

" '  Mary's  love  may  I  possess, 
Lydia's  tender-heartedness, 
Peter's  fervent  spirit  feel, 
James's  faith  by  works  reveal, 
Like  young  Timothy  may  I 
Every  sinful  passion  fly.' 

"'Oh,  Diademy,'  she'd  say,  'you  was 
always  the  best,  and  it 's  nothing  more  'n 
right  the  baby  should  have  come  to  you. 
PVaps  God  will  think  I  'm  good  enough 
some  time ;  and  if  he  does,  Diademy,  I  '11 
offer  up  a  sacrifice  every  morning  and  every 
evening.  But  I  'm  afraid, '  says  she,  '  he 
thinks  I  can't  stand  any  more  happiness, 
and  be  a  faithful  follower  of  the  cross.  The 
Bible  says  we  've  got  to  wade  through  fiery 
floods  before  we  can  enter  the  kingdom.  I 
don't  hardly  know  how  Reuben  and  I  are 
going  to  find  any  to  wade  through;  we're 
both  so  happy,  they  'd  have  to  be  con- 
sid'able  hot  before  we  took  notice,'  says 
she,  with  the  dimples  all  breaking  out  in 
her  cheeks. 

"And  that  was  true  as  gospel.  She 
thought  everything  Eeuben  done  was  just 
right,  and  he  thought  everything  she  done 
was  just  right.  There  wa'n't  nobody  else; 
the  world  was  all  Reuben  'n'  all  Lovey  to 
them.  If  you  could  have  seen  her  when 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  117 

she  was  looking  for  him  to  come  from  Skow- 
hegan !  She  used  to  watch  at  the  attio  win 
dow  ;  and  when  she  seen  him  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  she  'd  up  like  a  squirrel,  and  run 
down  the  road  without  stopping  for  any- 
thin  o-  but  to  throw  a  shawl  over  her  head. 

o 

And  Reuben  would  ketch  her  up  as  if  she 
was  a  child,  and  scold  her  for  not  putting 
a  hat  on,  and  take  her  under  his  coat  com 
ing  up  the  hill.  They  was  a  sight  for  the 
neighbors,  I  must  confess,  but  it  wa'n't  one 
you  could  hardly  disapprove  of,  neither. 
Aunt  Ilitty  said  it  was  tempting  Providence 
and  could  n't  last,  and  God  would  visit  his 
wrath  on  'em  for  making  idols  of  sinful 
human  flesh. 

"  She  was  right  one  way,  —  it  did  n't  last ; 
but  nobody  can  tell  me  God  was  punishing 
of  'em  for  being  too  happy.  I  guess  he 
'ain't  got  no  objection  to  folks  being  happy 
here  below,  if  they  don't  forget  it  ain't  the 
whole  story. 

"  Well,  I  must  mark  in  a  bud  on  Lovey's 
stalk  now,  and  I  'm  going  to  make  it  of  her 
baby's  long  white  cloak.  I  earned  the  money 
for  it  myself,  making  coats,  and  put  four 
yards  of  the  finest  cashmere  into  it;  for 
three  years  after  little  Jot  was  born  I  went 


118  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

over  to  Skowhegan  to  help  Lovey  through 
her  time  o'  trial.  Time  o'  trial !  I  thought 

O 

I  was  happy,  but  I  did  n't  know  how  to  be 
as  happy  as  Lovey  did;  I  wa'n't  made  on 
that  pattern. 

"When  I  first  showed  her  the  baby  (it 
was  a  boy,  same  as  mine),  her  eyes  shone 
like  two  evening  stars.  She  held  up  her 
weak  arms,  and  gathered  the  little  bundle 
o'  warm  flannen  into  'em ;  and  when  she  got 
it  close  she  shut  her  eyes  and  moved  her 
lips,  and  I  knew  she  was  taking  her  lamb 
to  the  altar  and  off'ring  it  up  as  a  sacrifice. 
Then  Reuben  come  in.  I  seen  him  give  one 
look  at  the  two  dark  heads  laying  close 
together  on  the  white  piller,  and  then  go 
down  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
'T  wa'n't  no  place  for  me ;  I  went  off,  and 
left  'em  together.  We  didn't  mistrust  it 
then,  but  they  only  had  three  days  more  of 
happiness,  and  I  'm  glad  I  give  'em  every 
minute." 

The  room  grew  dusky  as  twilight  stole 
gently  over  the  hills  of  Pleasant  Eiver. 
Priscilla's  lip  trembled;  Diadema's  tears 
fell  thick  and  fast  on  the  white  rosebud,  and 
she  had  to  keep  wiping  her  eyes  as  she  fol 
lowed  the  pattern. 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  119 

"I  ain't  said  as  much  as  this  about  it  for 
five  years,"  she  went  on,  with  a  tell-tale 
quiver  in  her  voice,  "but  now  I  've  got  go 
ing,  I  can't  stop.  I  '11  have  to  get  the 
weight  out  o'  my  heart  somehow. 

"Three  clays  after  I  put  Lovey's  baby  into 
her  arms  the  Lord  called  her  home.  '  When 
I  prayed  so  hard  for  this  little  new  life,  Reu 
ben,'  says  she,  holding  the  baby  as  if  she 
could  never  let  it  go,  '  I  did  n't  think  I  'd  got 
to  give  up  my  own  in  place  of  it ;  but  it 's 
the  first  fiery  flood  we've  had,  dear,  and 
though  it  burns  to  my  feet  I  '11  tread  it  as 
brave  as  I  know  how.' 

"She  didn't  speak  a  word  after  that;  she 
just  faded  away  like  a  snowdrop,  hour  by 
hour.  And  Reuben  and  I  stared  one  an 
other  in  the  face  as  if  we  was  dead  instead 
of  her,  and  we  went  about  that  house  o' 
mourning  like  sleep-walkers  for  days  and 
days,  not  knowing  whether  we  et  or  slept, 
or  what  we  done. 

"As  for  the  baby,  the  poor  little  mite 
did  n't  live  many  hours  after  its  mother,  and 
we  buried  'em  together.  Reuben  and  I 
knew  what  Lovey  would  have  liked.  She 
gave  her  life  for  the  baby's,  and  it  was  a 
useless  sacrifice,  after  all.  No,  it  wa'n't 


120  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

neither ;  it  could  n't  have  been !  You  need 
n't  tell  me  God  '11  let  such  sacrifices  as  that 
come  out  useless !  But  anyhow,  we  had  one 
coffin  for  'em  both,  and  I  opened  Lovey's 
arms  and  laid  the  baby  in  'em.  When  Reu 
ben  and  I  took  our  last  look,  we  thought  she 
seemed  more  'n  ever  like  Mary,  the  mother 
of  Jesus.  There  never  was  another  like  her, 
and  there  never  will  be.  'Nonesuch,'  Reu 
ben  used  to  call  her." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room,  broken 
only  by  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock  and  the 
tinkle  of  a  distant  cowbell.  Priscilla  made 
an  impetuous  movement,  flung  herself  down 
by  the  basket  of  rags,  and  buried  her  head 
in  Diadema's  gingham  apron. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Bascom,  don't  cry.  I'm 
sorry,  as  the  children  say." 

"No,  I  won't  more  'n  a  minute.  Jot  can't 
stand  it  to  see  me  give  way.  You  go  and 
touch  a  match  to  the  kitchen  fire,  so  't  the 
kettle  will  be  boiling,  and  I  '11  have  a  min 
ute  to  myself.  I  don't  know  what  the  neigh 
bors  would  think  to  ketch  me  crying  over 
my  drawing-in  frame;  but  the  spell's  over 
now,  or  'bout  over,  and  when  I  can  muster 
up  courage  I  '11  take  the  rest  of  the  baby's 
cloak  and  put  a  border  of  white  everlastings 


THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG.  121 

round  the  outside  of  the  rug.  It  '11  always 
mean  the  baby's  birth  and  Lovey's  death  to 
me;  but  the  flowers  will  remind  me  it 's  life 
everlasting  for  both  of  'em,  and  so  it 's  the 
most  comforting  end  I  can  think  of." 

It  was  indeed  a  beautiful  rug  when  it  was 
finished  and  laid  in  front  of  the  sofa  in  the 
fore-room.  Diadema  was  very  choice  of  it. 
When  company  was  expected,  she  removed 
it  from  its  accustomed  place,  and  spread  it 
in  a  corner  of  the  room  where  no  profane 
foot  could  possibly  tread  on  it.  Unexpected 
callers  were  managed  by  a  different  method. 
If  they  seated  themselves  on  the  sofa,  she 
would  fear  they  did  not  "set  easy"  or  "rest 
comfortable  "  there,  and  suggest  their  mov 
ing  to  the  stuffed  chair  by  the  window. 
The  neighbors  thought  this  solicitude  merely 
another  sign  of  Diadema' s  "p'ison  neat 
ness,"  excusable  in  this  case,  as  there  was 
so  much  white  in  the  new  rug. 

The  fore  -  room  blinds  were  ordinarily 
closed,  and  the  chillness  of  death  pervaded 
the  sacred  apartment;  but  on  great  occa 
sions,  when  the  sun  was  allowed  to  penetrate 
the  thirty-two  tiny  panes  of  glass  in  each 
window,  and  a  blaze  was  lighted  in  the  fire 
place,  Miss  Hollis  would  look  in  as  she  went 


122  THE   FORE-ROOM  RUG. 

upstairs,  and  muse  a  moment  over  the  pa 
thetic  little  romance  of  rags,  the  story  of  two 
lives  worked  into  a  bouquet  of  old-fashioned 
posies,  whose  gay  tints  were  brought  out  by 
a  setting  of  sombre  threads.  Existence  had 
gone  so  quietly  in  this  remote  corner  of  the 
world  that  all  its  important  events,  baby 
hood,  childhood,  betrothal,  marriage,  mo 
therhood,  with  all  their  mysteries  of  love 
and  life  and  death,  were  chronicled  in  this 
narrow  space  not  two  yards  square. 

Diadema  came  in  behind  the  little  school 
teacher  one  afternoon. 

"I  cal'late,"  she  said,  "that  being  kep'in 
a  dark  room,  and  never  being  tread  on,  it 
will  last  longer  'n  I  do.  If  it  does,  Pris- 
cilla,  you  know  that  white  crape  shawl  of 
mine  I  wear  to  meeting  hot  Sundays :  that 
would  make  a  second  row  of  everlastings 
round  the  border.  You  could  piece  out  the 
linings  good  and  smooth  on  the  under  side, 
draw  in  the  white  flowers,  and  fill  'em  round 
with  black  to  set  'em  off.  The  rug  would 
be  han'somer  than  ever  then,  and  the  story 
• — would  be  finished." 


A  VILLAGE  STKADIVARIUS. 


A  VILLAGE  STRADIVARIUS. 
i. 

"Goodfellow,  Puck  and  goblins, 
Know  more  than  any  book. 
Down  with  your  doleful  problems, 
And  court  the  sunny  brook. 
The  south-winds  are  quick-witted, 
The  schools  are  sad  and  slow, 
The  masters  quite  omitted 
The  lore  we  care  to  know." 

EMERSON'S  April. 

"FiND  the  317th  page,  Davy,  and  begin 
at  the  top  of  the  right-hand  column." 

The  boy  turned  the  leaves  of  the  old  in 
struction  book  obediently,  and  then  began 
to  read  in  a  sing-song,  monotonous  tone :  — 

"'One  of  Pag-pag'"- 

"Pag-a-iii-ni's." 

"4  One  of  Paggernyner's  '  (I  wish  all  the 
fellers  in  your  stories  did  n't  have  such 
tough  old  names !)  '  most  dis-as-ter-ous  tri 
umphs  he  had  when  playing  at  Lord  Hol 
land's.'  (Who  was  Lord  Holland,  uncle 
Tony?)  '  Some  one  asked  him  to  im-pro- 
vise  on  the  violin  the  story  of  a  son  who 


126  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

kills  liis  father,  runs  a-way,  becomes  a  high 
way-man,  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  who  will 
not  listen  to  him ;  so  he  leads  her  to  a  wild 
country  site,  suddenly  jumping  with  her 
from  a  rock  into  an  a-b-y-double-s  '  "  — 

"  Abyss." 

« '  —  a  —  rock  —  into  —  an  —  abyss,  where 
they  disappear  forever.  Paggernyner  lis 
tened  quietly,  and  when  the  story  was  at  an 
end  he  asked  that  all  the  lights  should  be 
distinguished.'  ' 

"Look  closer,  Davy." 

" '  Should  be  extinguished.  He  then  be 
gan  playing,  and  so  terrible  was  the  musical 
in-ter-pre-ta-tion  of  the  idea  which  had  been 
given  him  that  several  of  the  ladies  fainted, 
and  the  sal-salon-salon,  when  relighted, 
looked  like  a  battle-field.'  Cracky!  Would 
n't  you  like  to  have  been  there,  uncle  Tony? 
But  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  played 
that  way,  do  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  listener,  dreamily  raising 
his  sightless  eyes  to  the  elm -tree  that  grew 
by  the  kitchen  door.  "  I  believe  it,  and  I 
can  hear  it  myself  when  you  read  the  story 
to  me.  I  feel  that  the  secret  of  everything 
in  the  world  that  is  beautiful,  or  true,  or 
terrible,  is  hidden  in  the  strings  of  my 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  127 

violin,  Davy,  but  only  a  master  can  draw  it 
from  captivity." 

"You  make  stories  on  your  violin,  too, 
uncle  Tony,  even  if  the  ladies  don't  faint 
away  in  heaps,  and  if  the  kitchen  doesn't 
look  like  a  battle-field  when  you  've  finished. 
I  'm  glad  it  does  n't,  for  my  part,  for  I 
should  have  more  housework  to  do  than 
ever." 

"Poor  Davy!  you  couldn't  hate  house 
work  any  worse  if  you  were  a  woman ;  but 
it  is  all  done  for  to-day.  Now  paint  me  one 
of  your  pictures,  laddie ;  make  me  see  with 
your  eyes." 

The  boy  put  down  the  book  and  leaped 
out  of  the  open  door,  barely  touching  the 
old  millstone  that  served  for  a  step.  Tak 
ing  a  stand  in  the  well-worn  path,  he  rested 
his  hands  on  his  hips,  swept  the  landscape 
with  the  glance  of  an  eagle,  and  began  like 
a  young  improvisator :  — 

"The  sun  is  just  dropping  behind  Briga 
dier  Hill." 

"What  color  is  it?" 

"Red  as  fire,  and  there  isn't  anything 
near  it, — it's  almost  alone  in  the  sky; 
there  's  only  teenty  little  white  feather 
clouds  here  and  there.  The  bridge  looks 


128  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

as  if  it  was  a  silver  string  tying  the  two 
sides  of  the  river  together.  The  water  is 
pink  where  the  sun  shines  into  it.  All  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  are  kind  of  swimming  in 
the  red  light,  —  I  tell  you,  nunky,  just  as 
if  I  was  looking  through  red  glass.  The 
weather  vane  on  Squire  Bean's  barn  dazzles 
so  the  rooster  seems  to  be  shooting  gold 
arrows  into  the  river.  I  can  see  the  tip  top 
of  Mount  Washington  where  the  peak  of  its 
snow-cap  touches  the  pink  sky.  The  hen 
house  door  is  open.  The  chickens  are  all 
on  their  roost,  with  their  heads  cuddled  un 
der  their  wings." 

"Did  you  feed  them?" 

The  boy  clapped  his  hand  over  his  mouth 
with  a  comical  gesture  of  penitence,  and 
dashed  into  the  shed  for  a  panful  of  corn, 
which  he  scattered  over  the  ground,  enti 
cing  the  sleepy  fowls  by  insinuating  calls  of 
"  Chick,  chick,  chick,  chick !  Come,  biddy, 
biddy,  biddy,  biddy!  Come,  chick,  chick, 
chick,  chick,  chick!" 

The  man  in  the  doorway  smiled  as  over 
the  misdemeanor  of  somebody  very  dear  and 
lovable,  and  rising  from  his  chair  felt  his 
way  to  a  corner  shelf,  took  down  a  box,  and 
drew  from  it  a  violin  swathed  in  a  silk  bag. 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  129 

He  removed  the  covering  with  reverential 
hands.  The  tenderness  of  the  face  was  like 
that  of  a  young  mother  dressing  or  undress 
ing  her  child.  As  he  fingered  the  instru 
ment  his  hands  seemed  to  have  become  all 
eyes.  They  wandered  caressingly  over  the 
polished  surface  as  if  enamored  of  the  per 
fect  thing  that  they  had  created,  lingering 
here  and  there  with  rapturous  tenderness  on 
some  special  beauty,  —  the  graceful  arch  of 
the  neck,  the  melting  curves  of  the  cheeks, 
the  delicious  swell  of  the  breasts. 

When  he  had  satisfied  himself  for  the 
moment,  he  took  the  bow,  and  lifting  the 
violin  under  his  chin,  inclined  his  head 
fondly  toward  it  and  began  to  play. 

The  tune  at  first  seemed  muffled,  but  had 
a  curious  bite,  that  began  in  distant  echoes, 
but  after  a  few  minutes'  playing  grew  firmer 
and  clearer,  ringing  out  at  last  with  velvety 
richness  and  strength  until  the  atmosphere 
was  satiated  with  harmony.  No  more  ethe 
real  note  ever  flew  out  of  a  bird's  throat 
than  Anthony  Croft  set  free  from  this  vio 
lin,  his  liebling,  his  "swan  song,"  made  in 
the  year  he  had  lost  his  eyesight. 

Anthony  Croft  had  been  the  only  son  of 
his  mother,  and  she  a  widow.  His  boyhood 


130  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

had  been  exactly  like  that  of  all  the  other 
boys  in  Edgewood,  save  that  he  hated  school 
a  trifle  more,  if  possible,  than  any  of  the 
others;  though  there  was  a  unanimity  of 
aversion  in  this  matter  that  surprised  and 
wounded  teachers  and  parents. 

The  school  was  the  ordinary  "deestrick" 
school  of  that  time ;  there  were  not  enough 
scholars  for  what  Cyse  Higgins  called  a 
"  degraded ' '  school.  The  difference  between 
Anthony  and  the  other  boys  lay  in  the  rea 
son  as  well  as  the  degree  of  his  abhorrence. 

He  had  come  into  the  world  a  naked, 
starving  human  soul;  he  longed  to  clothe 
himself,  and  he  was  hungry  and  ever  hun 
grier  for  knowledge;  but  never  within  the 
four  walls  of  the  village  schoolhouse  could 
he  get  hold  of  one  fact  that  would  yield  him 
its  secret  sense,  one  glimpse  of  clear  light 
that  would  shine  in  upon  the  "darkness 
which  may  be  felt "  in  his  mind,  one  thought 
or  word  that  would  feed  his  soul. 

The  only  place  where  his  longings  were 
ever  stilled,  where  he  seemed  at  peace  with 
himself,  where  he  understood  what  he  was 
made  for,  was  out  of  doors  in  the  woods. 
When  he  should  have  been  poring  over  the 
sweet,  palpitating  mysteries  of  the  multipli- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVAR1US.  131 

cation  table,  his  vagrant  gaze  was  always 
on  the  open  window  near  which  he  sat.  He 
could  never  study  when  a  fly  buzzed  on  the 
window-pane;  he  was  always  standing  on 
the  toes  of  his  bare  feet,  trying  to  locate 
and  understand  the  buzz  that  puzzled  him. 
The  book  was  a  mute,  soulless  thing  that 
had  no  relation  to  his  inner  world  of  thought 

o 

and  feeling.  He  turned  ever  from  the  dead 
seven -times -six  to  the  mystery  of  life  about 
him. 

He  was  never  a  special  favorite  with  his 
teachers;  that  was  scarcely  to  be  expected. 
In  his  very  early  years,  his  pockets  were 
gone  through  with  every  morning  when  he 
entered  the  school  door,  and  the  contents, 
when  confiscated,  would  comprise  a  Jew's- 
harp,  a  bit  of  catgut,  screws  whittled  out  of 
wood,  tacks,  spools,  pins,  and  the  like.  But 
when  robbed  of  all  these  he  could  generally 
secrete  a  piece  of  elastic,  which,  when  put 
between  his  teeth  and  stretched  to  its  ut 
most  capacity,  would  yield  a  delightful 
twang  when  played  upon  with  the  forefin 
ger.  He  could  also  fashion  an  interesting 
musical  instrument  in  his  desk  by  means  of 
spools  and  catgut  and  bits  of  broken  glass. 
The  chief  joy  of  his  life  was  an  old  timing- 


132  A    VILLAGE    STRADIVAR1US. 

fork  that  the  teacher  of  the  singing-school 
had  given  him,  but,  owing  to  the  degrading 
and  arbitrary  censorship  of  pockets  that 
prevailed,  he  never  dared  bring  it  into  the 
schoolroom.  There  were  ways,  however,  of 
evading  inexorable  law  and  circumventing 
base  injustice.  He  hid  the  precious  thing 
under  a  thistle  just  outside  the  window. 
The  teacher  had  sometimes  a  brief  season  of 
apathy  on  hot  afternoons,  when  she  was 
hearing  the  primer  class  read,  "  /  see  a  pig. 
The  pig  is  big.  The  big  pig  can  dig ;" 
which  stirring  phrases  were  always  punctu 
ated  by  the  snores  of  the  Hanks  baby,  who 
kept  sinking  down  on  his  fat  little  legs  in 
the  line  and  giving  way  to  slumber  during 
the  lesson.  At  such  a  moment  Anthony 
slipped  out  of  the  window  and  snapped  the 
tuning-fork  several  times,  —  just  enough  to 
save  his  soul  from  death,  —  and  then  slipped 
in  again.  He  was  caught  occasionally,  but 
not  often;  and  even  when  he  was,  there 
were  mitigating  circumstances,  for  he  was 
generally  put  under  the  teacher's  desk  for 
punishment.  It  was  a  dark,  close,  sultry 
spot,  but  when  he  was  well  seated,  and  had 
grown  tired  of  looking  at  the  triangle  of 
elastic  in  the  teacher's  congress  boot,  and 


A    VILLAGE   STRAD1VARIUS.  133 

tired  of  wishing  it  was  his  instead  of  hers, 
he  would  tie  one  end  of  a  bit  of  thread  to 
the  button  of  his  gingham  shirt,  and,  carry 
ing  it  round  his  left  ear  several  times,  make 
believe  he  was  Paganini  languishing  in 
prison  and  playing  on  a  violin  with  a  single 
string. 

As  he  grew  older  there  was  no  marked 
improvement,  and  Tony  Croft  was  by  gen 
eral  assent  counted  the  laziest  boy  in  the 
village.  That  he  was  lazy  in  certain  mat 
ters  merely  because  he  was  in  a  frenzy  of 
industry  to  pursue  certain  others  had  no 
thing  to  do  with  the  case,  of  course. 

If  any  one  had  ever  given  him  a  task  in 
which  he  could  have  seen  cause  working  to 
effect,  in  which  he  could  have  found  by  per 
sonal  experiment  a  single  fact  that  belonged 
to  him,  his  own  by  divine  right  of  discov 
ery,  he  would  have  counted  labor  or  study 
all  joy. 

He  was  one  incarnate  Why  and  How, 
one  brooding  wonder  and  interrogation  point. 
"Why  does  the  sun  drive  away  the  stars? 
Why  do  the  leaves  turn  red  and  gold? 
What  makes  the  seed  swell  in  the  earth? 
From  whence  comes  the  life  hidden  in  the 
egg  under  the  bird's  breast?  What  holds 


134  A    VILLAGE    STRADIVARI  US. 

the  moon  in  the  sky?  Who  regulates  her 
shining?  Who  moves  the  wind?  Who 
made  me,  and  what  am  I?  Who,  why, 
how,  whither?  If  I  came  from  God  but 
only  lately,  teach  me  his  lessons  first,  put 
me  into  vital  relation  with  life  and  law,  and 
then  give  me  your  dead  signs  and  equiv 
alents  for  real  things,  that  I  may  learn 
more  and  more,  and  ever  more  and  ever 
more." 

There  was  no  spirit  in  Edgewood  bold 
enough  to  conceive  that  Tony  learned  any 
thing  in  the  woods,  but  as  there  was  never 
sufficient  school  money  to  keep  the  village 
seat  of  learning  open  more  than  half  the 
year  the  boy  educated  himself  at  the  foun 
tain  head  of  wisdom  and  knowledge  the 
other  half.  His  mother,  who  owned  him 
for  a  duckling  hatched  from  a  hen's  egg, 
and  was  never  quite  sure  he  would  not  turn 
out  a  black  sheep  and  a  crooked  stick  to 
boot,  was  obliged  to  confess  that  Tony  had 
more  useless  information  than  any  boy  in 
the  village.  He  knew  just  where  to  find 
the  first  Mayflowers,  and  would  bring  home 
the  waxen  beauties  when  other  people  had 
scarcely  begun  to  think  about  the  spring. 
He  could  tell  where  to  look  for  the  rare 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  135 

fringed  gentian,  the  yellow  violet,  the  In 
dian  pipe.  There  were  clefts  in  the  rocks 
of  the  Indian  Cellar  where,  when  every  one 
else  failed,  he  could  find  harebells  and  col 
umbines. 

When    his    tasks    were    done,    and    the 
other  boys  were  amusing  themselves  each  in 
his  own  way,  you  would  find  Tony  lying 
flat  on  the  pine  needles  in  the  woods,  listen 
ing  to  the  notes  of  the  wild  birds,  and  imi 
tating  them  patiently,  till  you  could  scarcely 
tell  which  was  boy  and  which  was  bird ;  and 
if  you  could,  the  birds  couldn't,  for  many 
a  time  he  coaxed  the  bobolinks  and  thrushes 
to  perch  on  the  low  boughs  above  his  head 
and  chirp  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  feathered 
brother.    There  was  nothing  about  the  build 
ing  of  nests  with  which  he  was  not  familiar. 
He  could  have  taken  hold  and  helped  if  the 
birds  had  not  been  so  shy,  and  if  he  had 
had  beak  and  claw  instead  of  clumsy  fingers. 
He  would  sit  near  a  beehive  for  hours  with 
out  moving,  or  lie  prone  in  the  sandy  road, 
under  the  full  glare  of  the  sun,  watching 
the  ants  acting  out  their  human  comedy; 
sometimes  surrounding  a  favorite  hill  with 
stones,  that  the  comedy  might  not  be  turned 
into  tragedy  by  a   careless   footfall.     The 


136  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

cottage  on  the  river  road  grew  more  and 
more  to  resemble  a  museum  and  herbarium 
as  the  years  went  by,  and  the  Widow 
Croft's  weekly  house-cleaning  was  a  matter 
that  called  for  the  exercise  of  Christian 
grace. 

Still,  Tony  was  a  good  son,  affectionate, 
considerate,  and  obedient.  His  mother  had 
no  idea  that  he  would  ever  be  able,  or  in 
deed  willing,  to  make  a  living;  but  there 
was  a  forest  of  young  timber  growing  up, 
a  small  hay  farm  to  depend  upon,  and  a  lit 
tle  hoard  that  would  keep  him  out  of  the 
poorhouse  when  she  died  and  left  him  to  his 
own  devices.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that 
he  was  in  any  way  remarkable.  If  he  were 
difficult  to  understand,  it  reflected  more 
upon  his  eccentricity  than  upon  her  density. 
What  was  a  woman  to  do  with  a  boy  of 
twelve  who,  when  she  urged  him  to  drop 
the  old  guitar  he  was  taking  apart  and 
hurry  off  to  school,  cried,  "Oh,  mother! 
when  there  is  so  much  to  learn  in  this 
world,  it  is  wicked,  wicked,  to  waste  time 
in  school." 

About  this  period  Tony  spent  hours  in  the 
attic  arranging  bottles  and  tumblers  into  a 
musical  scale.  He  also  invented  an  instru- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  137 

ment  made  of  small  and  great,  long  and 
short  pins,  driven  into  soft  board  to  differ 
ent  depths,  and  when  the  widow  passed  his 
door  on  the  way  to  bed  she  invariably  saw 
this  barbaric  thing  locked  to  the  boy's 
breast,  for  he  often  played  himself  to  sleep 
with  it. 

At  fifteen  he  had  taken  to  pieces  and  put 
together  again,  strengthened,  soldered,  tin 
kered,  mended,  and  braced,  every  accor 
dion,  guitar,  melodeon,  dulcimer,  and  fid 
dle  in  Edgewood,  Pleasant  River,  and  the 
neighboring  villages.  There  was  a  little 
money  to  be  earned  in  this  way,  but  very 
little,  as  people  in  general  regarded  this 
"tinkering  "  as  a  pleasing  diversion  in  which 
they  could  indulge  him  without  danger.  As 
an  example  of  this  attitude,  Dr.  Berry's 
wife's  melodeon  had  lost  two  stops,  the 
pedals  had  severed  connection  with  the  rest 
of  the  works,  it  wheezed  like  an  asthmatic, 
and  two  black  keys  were  missing.  Anthony 
worked  more  than  a  week  on  its  rehabilita 
tion,  and  received  in  return  Mrs.  Berry's 
promise  that  the  doctor  would  pull  a  tooth 
for  him  some  time!  This,  of  course,  was  a 
guerdon  for  the  future,  but  it  seemed  pathet 
ically  distant  to  the  lad  who  had  never  had 


138  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

a  toothache  in  his  life.  He  had  to  plead 
with  Cyse  Higgins  for  a  week  before  that 
prudent  young  farmer  would  allow  him  to 
touch  his  five -dollar  fiddle.  He  obtained 
permission  at  last  only  by  offering  to  give 
Cyse  his  calf  in  case  he  spoiled  the  violin. 
"That  seems  square,"  said  Cyse  doubtfully, 
"but  after  all,  you  can't  play  on  a  calf!" 
"Neither  will  your  fiddle  give  milk,  if  you 
keep  it  long  enough,"  retorted  Tony;  and 
this  argument  was  convincing. 

So  great  was  his  confidence  in  Tony's 
skill  that  Squire  Bean  trusted  his  father's 
violin  to  him,  one  that  had  been  bought  in 
Berlin  seventy  years  before.  It  had  been 
hanging  on  the  attic  wall  for  a  half  century, 
so  that  the  back  was  split  in  twain,  the 
sound-post  lost,  the  neck  and  the  tailpiece 
cracked.  The  lad  took  it  home,  and  stud 
ied  it  for  two  whole  evenings  before  the 
open  fire.  The  problem  of  restoring  it  was 
quite  beyond  his  abilities.  He  finally  took 
the  savings  of  two  summers'  "blueberry 
money  "  and  walked  sixteen  miles  to  Port 
land,  where  he  bought  a  book  called  The 
Practical  Violinist.  The  Supplement  proved 
to  be  a  mine  of  wealth.  Even  the  headings 
appealed  to  his  imagination  and  intoxicated 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  139 

him  with  their  suggestions,  —  On  Scraping, 
Splitting,  and  Eepairing  Violins,  Violin 
Players,  Great  Violinists,  Solo  Playing, 
etc. ;  and  at  the  very  end  a  Treatise  on  the 
Construction,  Preservation,  Repair,  and  Im 
provement  of  the  Violin,  by  Jacob  Augustus 
Friedheim,  Instrument  Maker  to  the  Court 
of  the  Archduke  of  Weimar. 
_  There  was  a  good  deal  of  moral  advice  in 
the  preface  that  sadly  puzzled  the  boy,  who 
was  always  in  a  condition  of  chronic  amaze 
ment  at  the  village  disapprobation  of  his 
favorite  fiddle.  That  the  violin  did  not  in 
some  way  receive  the  confidence  enjoyed  by 
other  musical  instruments,  he  perceived  from 
various  paragraphs  written  by  the  worthy 
author  of  The  Practical  Violinist,  as  for 
example :  — 

"Some  very  excellent  Christian  people 
hold  a  strong  prejudice  against  the  violin 
because  they  have  always  known  it  associ 
ated  with  dancing  and  dissipation.  Let  it 
be  understood  that  your  violin  is  '  converted, ' 
and  such  an  objection  will  no  longer  lie 
against  it.  ...  Many  delightful  hours  may 
be  enjoyed  by  a  young  man,  if  he  has  ob 
tained  a  respectable  knowledge  of  his  instru 
ment,  who  otherwise  would  find  the  time 


140  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

hang  heavy  on  his  hands;  or,  for  want  of 
some  better  amusement,  would  frequent  the 
dangerous  and  destructive  paths  of  vice  arid 
be  ruined  forever.  ...  I  am  in  hopes, 
therefore,  my  dear  young  pupil,  that  your 
violin  will  occupy  your  attention  at  just 
those  very  times  when,  if  you  were  immoral 
or  dissipated,  you  would  be  at  the  grogshop, 
gaming  -  table,  or  among  vicious  females. 
Such  a  use  of  the  violin,  notwithstanding 
the  prejudices  many  hold  against  it,  must 
contribute  to  virtue,  and  furnish  abundance 
of  innocent  and  entirely  unobjectionable 
amusement.  These  are  the  views  with  which 
I  hope  you  have  adopted  it,  and  will  con 
tinue  to  cherish  and  cultivate  it." 

ii. 

"  There  is  no  bard  in  all  the  choir, 

Not  one  of  all  can  put  in  verse, 
Or  to  this  presence  could  rehearse 
The  sights  and  voices  ravishing 
The  boy  knew  on  the  hills  in  spring, 
"When  pacing  through  the  oaks  he  heard 
Sharp  queries  of  the  sentry-bird, 
The  heavy  grouse's  sudden  whir, 
The  rattle  of  the  kingfisher." 

EMERSON'S  Harp. 

Now  began  an  era  of  infinite  happiness, 
of   days   that   were   never  long  enough,  of 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  141 

evenings  when  bedtime  came  all  too  soon. 
Oh  that  there  had  been  some  good  angel 
who  would  have  taken  in  hand  Anthony 
Croft  the  boy,  and,  training  the  powers 
that  pointed  so  unmistakably  in  certain  di 
rections,  given  to  the  world  the  genius  of 
Anthony  Croft,  potential  instrument  maker 
to  the  court  of  St.  Cecilia ;  for  it  was  not 
only  that  he  had  the  fingers  of  a  wizard ;  his 
ear  caught  the  faintest  breath  of  harmony 
or  hint  of  discord,  as 

"  Fairy  folk  a-listening 
Hear  the  seed  sprout  in  the  spring, 
And  for  music  to  their  dance 
Hear  the  hedge-rows  wake  from  trance; 
Sap  that  trembles  into  buds 
Sending  little  rhythmic  floods 
Of  fairy  sound  in  fairy  ears. 
Thus  all  beauty  that  appears 
Has  birth  as  sound  to  finer  sense 
And  lighter-clad  intelligence." 

As  the  universe  is  all  mechanism  to  one 
man,  all  form  and  color  to  another,  so  to 
Anthony  Croft  the  world  was  all  melody. 
Notwithstanding  all  these  gifts  and  possi 
bilities,  the  doctor's  wife  advised  the  Widow 
Croft  to  make  a  plumber  of  him,  intimat 
ing  delicately  that  these  freaks  of  nature, 
while  playing  no  apparent  part  in  the  divine 


142  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

economy,  could  sometimes  be  made  self- 
supporting. 

The  seventeenth  year  of  his  life  marked 
a  definite  epoch  in  his  development.  He 
studied  Jacob  Friedheim's  treatise  until  he 
knew  the  characteristics  of  all  the  great 
violin  models,  from  the  Amatis,  Hierony- 
mus,  Aritonius,  and  Nicolas,  to  those  of 
Stradivarius,  Guarnerius,  and  Steiner. 

It  was  in  this  year,  also,  that  he  made  a 
very  precious  discovery.  While  browsing 
in  the  rubbish  in  Squire  Bean's  garret  to 
see  if  he  could  find  the  missing  sound-post 
of  the  old  violin,  he  came  upon  a  billet  of 
wood  wrapped  in  cloth  and  paper.  When 
unwrapped,  it  was  plainly  labeled  "Wood 
from  the  Bean  Maple  at  Pleasant  Point; 
the  biggest  maple  in  York  County,  and  be 
lieved  to  be  one  of  the  biggest  in  the  State 
of  Maine."  Anthony  found  that  the  oldest 
inhabitant  of  Pleasant  River  remembered 
the  stump  of  the  tree,  and  that  the  boys 
used  to  jump  over  it  and  admire  its  propor 
tions  whenever  they  went  fishing  at  the 
Point.  The  wood,  therefore,  was  perhaps 
eighty  or  ninety  years  old.  The  squire 
agreed  willingly  that  it  should  be  used  to 
mend  the  old  violin,  and  told  Tony  he 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  143 

should  have  what  was  left  for  himself. 
When,  by  careful  calculation,  he  found  that 
the  remainder  would  make  a  whole  violin, 
he  laid  it  reverently  away  for  another  twenty 
years,  so  that  he  should  be  sure  it  had  com 
pleted  its  century  of  patient  waiting  for 
service,  and  falling  on  his  knees  by  his  bed 
side  said,  "I  thank  Thee,  Heavenly  Father, 
for  this  precious  gift,  and  I  promise  from 
this  moment  to  gather  the  most  beautiful 
wood  I  can  find,  and  lay  it  by  where  it  can 
be  used  some  time  to  make  perfect  violins, 
so  that  if  any  creature  as  poor  and  as  help 
less  as  I  am  needs  the  wherewithal  to  do 
good  work,  I  shall  have  helped  him  as  Thou 
hast  helped  me."  And  according  to  his 
promise  so  he  did,  and  the  pieces  of  richly 
curled  maple,  of  sycamore,  and  of  spruce 
began  to  accumulate.  They  were  cut  from 
the  sunny  side  of  the  trees,  in  just  the  right 
season  of  the  year,  split  so  as  to  have  a 
full  inch  thickness  towards  the  bark,  and  a 
quarter  inch  towards  the  heart.  They  were 
then  laid  for  weeks  under  one  of  the  falls  in 
Wine  Brook,  where  the  musical  tinkle,  tin 
kle  of  the  stream  fell  on  the  wood  already 
wrought  upon  by  years  of  sunshine  and 
choruses  of  singing  birds. 


144  A    VILLAGE    STRAD1VARIUS. 

This  boy,  toiling  not  alone  for  himself, 
but  with  full  and  conscious  purpose  for  pos 
terity  also,  was  he  not  worthy  to  wear  the 
mantle  of  Antonius  Stradivarius  ? 

"  That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 
Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years, 
Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance, 
And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness, 
Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 
For  inspiration  and  high  mastery." 

And  as  if  the  year  were  not  full  enough  of 
glory,  the  school-teacher  sent  him  a  book 
with  a  wonderful  poem  in  it. 

That  summer's  teaching  had  been  the 
freak  of  a  college  student,  who  had  gone 
back  to  his  senior  year  strengthened  by  his 
experience  of  village  life.  Anthony  Croft, 
who  was  only  three  or  four  years  his  junior, 
had  been  his  favorite  pupil  and  companion. 

"How  does  Tony  get  along?"  asked  the 
Widow  Croft  when  the  teacher  came  to  call. 

"Tony?  Oh,  I  can't  teach  him  any 
thing." 

Tears  sprang  to  the  mother's  eyes. 

"I  know  he  ain't  much  on  book  learning," 
she  said  apologetically,  "but  I  'm  bound  he 
don't  make  you  no  trouble  in  deportment." 

"I  mean,"  said  the  school-teacher  gravely, 
"that  I  can  show  him  how  to  read  a  little 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  145 

Latin  and  do  a  little  geometry,  but  lie 
knows  as  much  in  one  day  as  I  shall  ever 
know  in  a  year." 

Tony  crouched  by  the  old  fireplace  in  the 
winter  evenings,  dropping  his  knife  or  his 
compasses  a  moment  to  read  aloud  to  his 
mother,  who  sat  in  the  opposite  corner 
knitting :  — 

"Of  old  Antonio  Stradivari,  —  him 
Who  a  good  century  and  a  half  ago 
Put  his  true  work  in  the  brown  instrument, 
And  by  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 
Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 
With  the  master's  finger-tips,  and  perfected 
Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use." 

The  mother  listened  with  painful  intent- 
ness.  "I  like  the  sound  of  it,"  she  said, 
"but  I  can't  hardly  say  I  take  in  the  full 
sense." 

"Why,  mother,"  said  the  lad,  in  a  rare 
moment  of  self-expression,  "you  know  the 
poetry  says  he  cherished  his  sight  and  touch 
by  temperance;  that  an  idiot  might  see  a 
straggling  line  and  be  content,  but  he  had 
an  eye  that  winced  at  false  work,  and  loved 
the  true.  When  it  says  his  finger-tips  were 
perfected  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use,  I 
think  it  means  doing  everything  as  it  is 
done  in  heaven,  and  that  anybody  who 


146  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

wants  to  make  a  perfect  violin  must  keep 
his  eye  open  to  all  the  beautiful  things  God 
has  made,  and  his  ear  open  to  all  the  music 
he  has  put  into  the  world,  and  then  never 
let  his  hands  touch  a  piece  of  work  that  is 
crooked  or  straggling  or  false,  till,  after 
years  and  years  of  rightness,  they  are  fit  to 
make  a  violin  like  the  squire's,  a  violin  that 
can  say  everything,  a  violin  that  an  angel 
wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  play  on." 

Do  these  words  seem  likely  ones  to  fall 
from  the  lips  of  a  lad  who  had  been  at  the 
tail  of  his  class  ever  since  his  primer  days  ? 
Well,  Anthony  was  seventeen  now,  and  he 
was  "educated,"  in  spite  of  sorry  recita 
tions,  —  educated,  the  Lord  knows  how ! 
Yes,  in  point  of  fact  the  Lord  does  know 
how !  He  knows  how  the  drill  and  pressure 
of  the  daily  task,  still  more  the  presence  of 
the  high  ideal,  the  inspiration  working  from 
within,  how  these  educate  us. 

The  blind  Anthony  Croft  sitting  in  the 
kitchen  doorway  had  seemingly  missed  the 
heights  of  life  he  might  have  trod,  and  had 
walked  his  close  on  fifty  years  through  level 
meadows  of  mediocrity,  a  witch  in  every 
finger-tip  waiting  to  be  set  to  work,  head 
among  the  clouds,  feet  stumbling,  eyes  and 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US.  147 

ears  open  to  hear  God's  secret  thought; 
seeing  and  hearing  it,  too,  but  lacking  force 
to  speak  it  forth  again ;  for  while  imperious 
genius  surmounts  all  obstacles,  brushes  laws 
and  formulas  from  its  horizon,  and  with  its 
own  free  soul  sees  its  "path  and  the  outlets 
of  the  sky,"  potential  genius  forever  needs 
an  angel  of  deliverance  to  set  it  free. 

Poor  Anthony  Croft,  or  blessed  Anthony 
Croft,  I  know  not  which,  —  God  knows ! 
Poor  he  certainly  was,  yet  blessed  after  all. 
"One  thing  I  do,"  said  Paul.  "One  thing 
I  do,"  said  Anthony.  He  was  not  able  to 
realize  his  ideals,  but  he  had  the  "angel 
aim  "  by  which  he  idealized  his  reals. 

O  waiting  heart  of  God !  how  soon  would 
thy  kingdom  come  if  we  all  did  our  allotted 
tasks,  humble  or  splendid,  in  this  conse 
crated  fashion ! 

in. 

"  Therein  I  hear  the  Pare*  reel 
The  threads  of  man  at  their  humming  wheel, 
The  threads  of  life  and  power  and  pain, 
So  sweet  and  mournful  falls  the  strain." 

EMERSON'S  Harp. 

Old  Mrs.  Butterfield  had  had  her  third 
stroke  of  paralysis,  and  died  of  a  Sunday 
night.  She  was  all  alone  in  her  little  cot- 


148  A    VILLAGE   STKADIVAR1US. 

tage  on  the  river  bank,  with  no  neighbor 
nearer  than  Croft's,  and  nobody  there  but 
a  blind  man  and  a  small  boy.  Everybody 
had  told  her  it  was  foolish  for  a  frail  old 
woman  of  seventy  to  live  alone  in  a  house 
on  the  river  road,  and  everybody  was  pleased, 
in  a  discreet  and  chastened  fashion  of  course, 
that  it  had  turned  out  exactly  as  they  had 
predicted. 

Aunt  Mehitable  Tarbox  was  walking  up 
to  Milliken's  Mills,  with  her  little  black 
reticule  hanging  over  her  arm,  and  noticing 
that  there  was  110  smoke  coming  out  of  the 
chimney,  and  that  the  hens  were  gathered 
about  the  kitchen  door  clamoring  for  their 
breakfast,  she  thought  it  best  to  stop  and 
knock.  No  response  followed  the  repeated 
blows  from  her  hard  knuckles.  She  then 
tapped  smartly  on  Mrs.  Butterfield's  bed 
room  window  with  her  thimble  finger.  This 
proving  of  110  avail,  she  was  obliged  to  pry 
open  the  kitchen  shutter,  split  open  a  mos 
quito  netting  with  her  shears,  and  crawl 
into  the  house  over  the  sink.  This  was  a 
considerable  feat  for  a  somewhat  rheumatic 
elderly  lady,  but  this  one  never  grudged 
trouble  when  she  wanted  to  find  out  any 
thing. 


A    VILLAGE    STRADIVARIUS.  149 

When  she  discovered  that  her  premoni 
tions  were  correct,  and  that  old  Mrs.  But- 
terfield  was  indeed  dead,  her  grief  at  losing 
a  pleasant  acquaintance  was  largely  miti 
gated  by  her  sense  of  importance  at  being 
first  on  the  spot,  and  chosen  by  Providence 
to  take  command  of  the  situation.  There 
were  no  relations  in  the  village;  there  was 
no  woman  neighbor  within  a  mile:  it  was 
therefore  her  obvious  Christian  duty  not 
only  to  take  charge  of  the  remains,  but  to 
conduct  such  a  funeral  as  the  remains  would 
have  wished  for  herself. 

The  fortunate  Vice-President  suddenly 
called  upon  by  destiny  to  guide  the  ship  of 
state,  the  general  who  sees  a  possible  Vic 
toria  Cross  in  a  hazardous  engagement,  can 
have  a  faint  conception  of  aunt  Hitty's 
feeling  on  this  momentous  occasion.  Fu 
nerals  were  the  very  breath  of  her  life. 
There  was  no  ceremony,  either  of  public  or 
private  import,  that,  to  her  mind,  ap 
proached  a  funeral  in  real  satisfying  inter 
est.  Yet,  with  distinct  talent  in  this  direc 
tion,  she  had  always  been  "cabined,  cribbed, 
confined  "  within  hopeless  limitations.  She 
had  assisted  in  a  secondary  capacity  at  fu 
nerals  in  the  families  of  other  people,  but 


150  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

she  would  have  reveled  in  personally  con 
ducted  ones.  The  members  of  her  own 
family  stubbornly  refused  to  die,  however, 
even  the  distant  connections  living  on  and 
on  to  a  ridiculous  old  age ;  and  if  they  ever 
did  die,  by  reason  of  a  falling  roof,  ship 
wreck,  or  conflagration,  they  generally  died 
in  Texas  or  Iowa,  or  some  remote  State 
where  aunt  Hitty  could  not  follow  the  hearse 
in  the  first  carriage.  This  blighted  am 
bition  was  a  heart  sorrow  of  so  deep  and 
sacred  a  character  that  she  did  not  even 
confess  it  to  "Si,"  as  her  appendage  of  a 
husband  was  called. 

Now  at  last  her  chance  for  planning  a 
funeral  had  come.  Mrs.  Butterfield  had  no 
kith  or  kin  save  her  niece,  Lyddy  Ann,  who 
lived  in  Andover,  or  Lawrence,  or  Haver- 
hill,  Massachusetts, — aunt  Hitty  couldn't 
remember  which,  and  hoped  nobody  else 
could.  The  niece  would  be  sent  for  when 
they  found  out  where  she  lived ;  meanwhile 
the  funeral  could  not  be  put  off. 

She  glanced  round  the  house  preparatory 
to  locking  it  up  and  starting  to  notify  An 
thony  Croft.  She  would  just  run  over  and 
talk  to  him  about  ordering  the  coffin ;  then 
she  could  attend  to  all  other  necessary  pre- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  151 

liminaries  herself.  The  remains  had  been 
well-to-do,  and  there  was  no  occasion  for 
sordid  economy,  so  aunt  Hitty  determined 
in  her  own  mind  to  have  the  latest  fashion 
in  everything,  including  a  silver  coffin  plate. 
The  Butterfield  coffin  plates  were  a  thing  to 
be  proud  of.  They  had  been  sacredly  pre 
served  for  years  and  years,  and  the  entire 
collection  —  numbering  nineteen  in  all  — 
had  been  framed,  and  adorned  the  walls  of 
the  deceased  lady's  best  room.  They  were 
not  of  solid  silver,  it  is  true,  but  even  so  it 
was  a  matter  of  distinction  to  have  belonged 
to  a  family  that  could  afford  to  have  nine 
teen  coffin  plates  of  any  sort. 

Aunt  Hitty  planned  certain  dramatic  de 
tails  as  she  walked  down  the  road  to  Croft's. 
It  came  to  her  in  a  burst  of  inspiration  that 
she  would  have  two  ministers :  one  for  the 
long  prayer,  and  one  for  the  short  prayer 
and  the  remarks.  She  hoped  that  Elder 
Weeks  would  be  adequate  in  the  latter  di 
rection.  She  knew  she  couldn't  for  the  life 
of  her  think  of  anything  interesting  about 
Mrs.  Butterfield,  save  that  she  possessed 
nineteen  coffin  plates,  and  brought  her  hens 
to  Edgewood  every  summer  for  their  health ; 
but  she  had  h?ard  Elder  Weeks  make  a 


152  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

moving  discourse  out  of  less  than  that.  To 
be  sure,  he  needed  priming,  but  she  was 
equal  to  that.  There  was  Ivory  Brown's 
funeral :  how  would  that  have  gone  on  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  her?  Wasn't  the  elder 
ten  minutes  late,  and  what  would  his  re 
marks  have  amounted  to  without  her  sug 
gestions?  You  might  almost  say  she  was 
the  author  of  the  discourse,  for  she  gave 
him  all  the  appropriate  ideas.  As  she  had 
helped  him  out  of  the  wagon  she  had  said : 
"Are  you  prepared?  I  thought  not;  but 
there 's  no  time  to  lose.  Kemember  there 
are  aged  parents;  two  brothers  living,  - 
one  railroading  in  Spokane  Falls,  the  other 
clerking  in  Washington,  D.  C.  Don't  men 
tion  the  Universalists,  —  there  's  ben  two 
in  the  f am'ly ;  nor  insanity,  —  there  's  ben 
one  o'  them.  The  girl  in  the  corner  by  the 
clock  is  the  one  that  the  remains  has  been 
keeping  comp'ny  with.  If  you  can  make 
some  genteel  allusions  to  her,  it  '11  be  much 
appreciated  by  his  folks." 

As  to  the  long  prayer,  she  knew  that  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Ford  could  be  relied  on  to  pray 
until  aunt  Becky  Burnham  should  twitch 
him  by  the  coat  tails.  She  had  done  it 
more  than  once.  She  had  also,  on  one  oc- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  153 

casion,  got  up  and  straightened  his  minis 
terial  neckerchief,  which  he  had  gradually 
"prayed"  around  his  saintly  neck  until  it 
was  behind  the  right  ear. 

These  plans  proved  so  fascinating  to  aunt 
Hitty  that  she  walked  quite  half  a  mile 
beyond  Croft's,  and  was  obliged  to  retrace 
her  steps.  She  conceived  bands  of  black 
alpaca  for  the  sleeves  and  hats  of  the  pall 
bearers,  and  a  festoon  of  the  same  over  the 
front  gate,  if  there  should  be  any  left  over. 
She  planned  the  singing  by  the  choir.  There 
had  been  no  real  choir-singing  at  any  fu 
neral  in  Edgewood  since  the  Rev.  Joshua 
Beckwith  had  died.  She  would  ask  them 
to  open  with  — 


Rebel  mourner,  cease  your  \veepin'. 


You  too          must        die. 

This  was  a  favorite  funeral  hymn.  The 
only  difficulty  would  be  in  keeping  aunt 
Becky  Burnham  from  pitching  it  in  a  key 
where  nobody  but  a  soprano  skylark,  accus 
tomed  to  warble  at  a  great  height,  could 


154  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

possibly  sing  it.  It  was  generally  given  at 
the  grave,  when  Elder  Weeks  officiated ;  but 
it  never  satisfied  aunt  Hitty,  because  the 
good  elder  always  looked  so  unpicturesque 
when  he  threw  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief 
over  his  head  before  beginning  the  twenty- 
seven  verses.  After  the  long  prayer,  she 
would  have  Almira  Berry  give  for  a  solo  — 


This  gro-o-oanin'  world  's  too  dark  and 


dre-e-ar  for  the  saints'  e    -  ter  -  nal  rest. 


This  hymn,  if  it  did  not  wholly  reconcile 
one  to  death,  enabled  one  to  look  upon  life 
with  sufficient  solemnity.  It  was  a  thou 
sand  pities,  she  thought,  that  the  old  hearse 
was  so  shabby  and  rickety,  and  that  Gooly 
Eldridge,  who  drove  it,  would  insist  on 
wearing  a  faded  peach-blow  overcoat.  It 
was  exasperating  to  think  of  the  public  spirit 
at  Egypt,  and  contrast  it  with  the  state  of 
things  at  Pleasant  River.  In  Egypt  they 
had  sold  the  old  hearse  house  for  a  sausage 
shop,  and  now  they  were  having  hearse  so« 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVAR1US.  155 

ciables  every  month  to  raise  money  for  a 
new  one. 

All  these  details  flew  through  aunt  Hit- 
ty's  mind  in  fascinating  procession.  There 
shouldn't  be  "a  hitch"  anywhere.  There 
had  been  a  hitch  at  her  last  funeral,  but  she 
had  been  only  an  assistant  there.  Matt 
Henderson  had  been  struck  by  lightning  at 
the  foot  of  Squire  Bean's  old  nooning  tree, 
and  certain  circumstances  combined  to  make 
the  funeral  one  of  unusual  interest,  so  much 
so  that  fat  old  Mrs.  Potter  from  Deerwander 
created  a  sensation  at  the  cemetery.  She 
was  so  anxious  to  get  where  she  could  see 
everything  to  the  best  advantage  that  she 
crowded  too  near  the  bier,  stepped  on  the 
sliding  earth,  and  pitched  into  the  grave. 
As  she  weighed  over  two  hundred  pounds, 
and  was  in  a  position  of  some  disadvantage, 
it  took  five  men  to  extricate  her  from  the 
dilemma,  and  the  operation  made  a  long 
and  somewhat  awkward  break  in  the  reli 
gious  services.  Aunt  Hitty  always  said  of 
this  catastrophe,  "If  I'd  'a'  ben  Mis'  Pot 
ter,  I  'd  'a'  ben  so  mortified  I  believe  I  'd  'a' 
said,  '  I  wa'n't  plannin'  to  be  buried,  but 
now  I  'm  in  here  I  declare  I  '11  stop ! ' ' 

Old  Mrs.    Butterfield's  funeral  was   not 


156  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

only  voted  an  entire  success  by  the  vil 
lagers,  but  the  seal  of  professional  approval 
was  set  upon  it  by  an  undertaker  from 
Saco,  who  declared  that  Mrs.  Tarbox  could 
make  a  handsome  living  in  the  funeral  line 
anywhere.  Providence,  who  always  assists' 
those  who  assist  themselves,  decreed  that  the 
niece  Lyddy  Ann  should  not  arrive  until 
the  aunt  was  safely  buried;  so,  there  being 
none  to  resist  her  right  or  grudge  her  the 
privilege,  aunt  Ilitty,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  rode  in  the  next  buggy  to  the 
hearse.  Si,  in  his  best  suit,  a  broad  weed 
and  weepers,  drove  Cyse  Higgins's  black 
colt,  and  aunt  Hitty  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  with  the  Widow  Buzzell's  crape 
veil  over  her  face,  and  in  her  hand  a  palm- 
leaf  fan  tied  with  a  black  ribbon.  Her  com 
ment  to  Si,  as  she  went  to  her  virtuous 
couch  that  night,  was:  "It  was  an  awful 
dry  funeral,  but  that  was  the  only  flaw  in 
it.  It  would  'a'  ben  perfect  if  there  'd  ben 
anybody  to  shed  tears.  I  come  pretty  nigh 
it  myself,  though  I  ain't  no  relation,  when 
Elder  Weeks  said,  '  You  '11  go  round  the 
house,  my  sisters,  and  Mis'  Butterfield  won't 
be  there;  you  '11  go  int'  the  orchard,  and 
Mis'  Butterfield  won't  be  there;  you'll  go 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  157 

hit'  the  barn  and  Mis'  Butterfield  won't  be 
there ;  you  '11  go  int'  the  shed,  and  Mis' 
Butterfield  won't  be  there ;  you  '11  go  int' 
the  hencoop,  and  Mis'  Butterfield  won't  be 
there !  '  That  would  'a'  drawed  tears  from 
a  stone  most,  'specially  sence  Mis'  Butterfield 
set  such  store  by  her  hens." 

And  this  is  the  way  that  Lycldy  Butter- 
field  came  into  her  kingdom,  a  little  lone 
brown  house  on  the  river's  brim.  She  had 
seen  it  only  once  before  when  she  had  driven 
out  from  Portland,  years  ago,  with  her 
aunt.  Mrs.  Butterfield  lived  in  Portland, 
but  spent  her  summers  in  Edge  wood  on 
account  of  her  chickens.  She  always  ex 
plained  that  the  country  was  dreadful  dull 
for  her,  but  good  for  the  hens;  they  always 
laid  so  much  better  in  the  winter  time. 

Lyddy  liked  the  place  all  the  better  for 
its  loneliness.  She  had  never  had  enough 
of  solitude,  and  this  quiet  home,  with  the 
song  of  the  river  for  company,  if  one  needed 
more  company  than  chickens  and  a  cat, 
satisfied  all  her  desires,  particularly  as  it 
was  accompanied  by  a  snug  little  income  of 
two  hundred  dollars  a  year,  a  meagre  sum 
that  seemed  to  open  up  mysterious  avenues 
of  joy  to  her  starved,  impatient  heart. 


158  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

When  she  was  a  mere  infant,  her  brother 
was  holding  her  on  his  knee  before  the  great 
old-fashioned  fireplace  heaped  with  burning 
logs.  A  sudden  noise  startled  him,  "and 
the  crowing,  restless  baby  gave  an  unex 
pected  lurch,  and  slipped,  face  downward, 
into  the  glowing  embers.  It  was  a  full 
minute  before  the  horror-stricken  boy  could 
extricate  the  little  creature  from  the  cruel 
flame  that  had  already  done  its  fatal  work. 
The  baby  escaped  with  her  life,  but  was 
disfigured  forever.  As  she  grew  older,  the 
gentle  hand  of  time  could  not  entirely  efface 
the  terrible  scars.  One  cheek  was  wrinkled 
and  crimson,  while  one  eye  and  the  mouth 
were  drawn  down  pathetically.  The  acci 
dent  might  have  changed  the  disposition  of 
any  child,  but  Lyddy  chanced  to  be  a  sensi 
tive,  introspective  bit  of  feminine  humanity, 
in  whose  memory  the  burning  flame  was 
never  quenched.  Her  mother,  partly  to 
conceal  her  own  wounded  vanity,  and  partly 
to  shield  the  timid,  morbid  child,  kept  her 
out  of  sight  as  much  as  possible ;  so  that  at 
sixteen,  when  she  was  left  an  orphan,  she 
had  lived  almost  entirely  in  solitude. 

She  became,  in  course  of  time,  a  kind  of 
general  nursery  governess  in  a  large  family 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  159 

of  motherless  children.  The  father  was  al 
most  always  away  from  home;  his  sister 
kept  the  house,  and  Lyddy  stayed  in  the 
nursery,  bathing  the  brood  and  putting  them 
to  bed,  dressing  them  in  the  morning,  and 
playing  with  them  in  the  safe  privacy  of  the 
back  garden  or  the  open  attic. 

They  loved  her,  disfigured  as  she  was,  - 
for  the  child  despises  mere  externals,  and 
explores  the  heart  of  things  to  see  whether 
it  be  good  or  evil,  —  but  they  could  never 
induce  her  to  see  strangers,  nor  to  join  any 
gathering  of  people. 

The  children  were  grown  and  married 
now,  and  Lyddy  was  nearly  forty  when  she 
came  into  possession  of  house  and  lands  and 
fortune  ;  forty,  with  twenty  years  of  un 
expended  feeling  pent  within  her.  Forty, 
-that  is  rather  old  to  be  interesting,  but 
age  is  a  relative  matter.  Have  n't  you  seen 
girls  of  four-and-twenty  who  have  nibbled 
and  been  nibbled  at  ever  since  they  were 
sixteen,  but  who  have  neither  caught  any 
thing  nor  been  caught?  They  are  old,  if 
you  like,  but  Lyddy  was  forty  and  still 
young,  with  her  susceptibilities  cherished, 
not  dulled,  and  with  all  the  "language  of 
passion  fresh  and  rooted  as  the  lovely  leaf 
age  about  a  spring." 


160  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 


IV. 

"He  shall  daily  joy  dispense 
Hid  in  song's  sweet  influence." 

EMEKSON'S  Merlin. 

Lyddy  had  very  few  callers  during  her 
first  month  as  a  property  owner  in  Edge- 
wood.  Her  appearance  would  have  been 
against  her  winning  friends  easily  in  any 
case,  even  if  she  had  not  acquired  the  habits 
of  a  recluse.  It  took  a  certain  amount  of 
time,  too,  for  the  community  to  get  used  to 
the  fact  that  old  Mrs.  Butterfield  was  dead, 
and  her  niece  Lyddy  Ann  living  in  the  cot 
tage  on  the  river  road.  There  were  num 
bers  of  people  who  had  not  yet  heard  that 
old  Mrs.  Butterfield  had  bought  the  house 
from  the  Thatcher  boys,  and  that  was  fifteen 
years  ago;  but  this  was  not  strange,  for, 
notwithstanding  aunt  Hitty's  valuable  ser 
vices  in  disseminating  general  information, 
there  was  a  man  living  on  the  Bonny  Eagle 
road  who  was  surprised  to  hear  that  Daniel 
Webster  was  dead,  and  complained  that 
folks  were  not  so  long-lived  as  they  used  to 
be. 

Aunt  Hitty  thought  Lyddy  a  Goth  and 
a  Vandal  because  she  took  down  the  twenty 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  161 

silver  coffin  plates  and  laid  them  reverently 
away.      "Mis'  Butterfield  would  turn  in  her 
grave,"  she  said,  "if  she  knew  it.     She  ain't 
much  of  a  housekeeper,  I  guess,"  she  went 
on,  as  she  cut  over  Dr.  Berry's  old  trousers 
into  briefer  ones  for  Tommy  Berry.      "She 
gives   considerable    stuff   to   her  hens  that 
she  'd  a  sight  better  heat  over  and  eat  her 
self,  in  these  hard  times  when  the  mission 
ary  societies  can't  hardly  keep  the  heathen 
fed  and  clothed  and  warmed  —  no,  I  don't 
mean  warmed,  for  most  o'  the  heathens  live 
in  hot  climates,  somehow  or  'nother.     My 
back  door's  jest  opposite  hers;  it's  across 
the  river,   to  be  sure,   but  it's  the  narrer 
part,  and  I  can  see  everything  she  doos  as 
plain  as  daylight.     She  washed  a  Monday, 
and  she  ain't  taken  her  clothes  in  yet,  and 
it 's  Thursday.     She  may  be  bleachin '   of 
'em  out,  but  it  looks  slack.     I  said  to  Si 
last  night  I  should  stand  it  till  'bout  Fri 
day  ?  —  seein'  'em  lay  on  the  grass  there,  - 
but  if  she  didn't  take  'em  in  then,  I  should 
go  over  and  offer  to  help  her.     She  has  a 
fire  in  the  settin'-room  'most  every  night, 
though  we    ain't   had  a  frost  yet;  and  as 
near's  I  can  make  out,  she's  got  full  red 
curtains  hangin'  up  to  her  windows.     I  ain't 


162  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

sure,  for  she  don't  open  the  blinds  in  that 
room  till  I  get  away  in  the  morning,  and 
she  shuts  'em  before  I  get  back  at  night. 
Si  don't  know  red  from  green,  so  he  's  use 
less  in  such  matters.  I  'm  going  home  late 
to-night,  and  walk  down  on  that  side  o'  the 
river,  so  't  I  can  call  in  after  dark  and  see 
what  makes  her  house  light  up  as  if  the  sun 
was  settin'  inside  of  it." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lyddy  was  reveling 
in  house-furnishing  of  a  humble  sort.  She 
had  a  passion  for  color.  There  was  a  red- 
and-white  straw  matting  on  the  sitting-room 
floor.  Reckless  in  the  certain  possession  of 
twenty  dollars  a  month,  she  purchased  yards 
upon  yards  of  turkey  red  cotton ;  enough  to 
cover  a  mattress  for  the  high-backed  settle, 
for  long  curtains  at  the  windows,  and  for 
cushions  to  the  rockers.  She  knotted  white 
fringes  for  the  table  covers  and  curtains, 
painted  the  inside  of  the  fireplace  red,  put 
some  pots  of  scarlet  geraniums  on  the  win 
dow-sills,  filled  a  newspaper  rack  with  ferns 
and  tacked  it  over  an  ugly  spot  in  the  wall, 
edged  her  work-basket  with  a  tufted  trim 
ming  of  scarlet  worsted,  and  made  an  elabo 
rate  photograph  case  of  white  crash  and  red 
cotton  that  stretched  the  entire  length  of 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  163 

the  old -fashioned  mantelshelf,  and  held  pic 
tures  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  Miss  Elvira  Rey 
nolds,  George,  Susy,  Anna,  John,  Hazel, 
Ella,  and  Rufus  Reynolds,  her  former 
charges.  When  all  this  was  done,  she 
lighted  a  little  blaze  on  the  hearth,  took  the 
red  curtains  from  their  bands,  let  them  fall 
gracefully  to  the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  her 
rocking-chair,  reconciled  to  her  existence 
for  absolutely  the  first  time  in  her  forty 
years. 

I  hope  Mrs.  Butterfield  was  happy  enough 
in.  Paradise  to  appreciate  and  feel  Lyddy's 
joy.  I  can  even  believe  she  was  glad  to 
have  died,  since  her  dying  could  bring  such 
content  to  any  wretched  living  human  soul. 
As  Lydia  sat  in  the  firelight,  the  left  side 
of  her  poor  face  in  shadow,  you  saw  that 
she  was  distinctly  harmonious.  Her  figure, 
clad  in  a  plain  black-and-white  calico  dress, 
was  a  graceful,  womanly  one.  She  had 
beautifully  sloping  shoulders  and  a  sweet 
waist.  Her  hair  was  soft  and  plentiful, 
and  her  hands  were  fine,  strong,  and  sensi 
tive.  This  possibility  of  rare  beauty  made 
her  scars  and  burns  more  pitiful,  for  if  a 
cheap  chromo  has  a  smirch  across  its  face, 
we  think  it  a  matter  of  no  moment,  but  we 


164  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

deplore  the  smallest  scratch  or  blur  on  any 
work  of  real  art. 

Lydia  felt  a  little  less  bitter  and  hopeless 
about  life  when  she  sat  in  front  of  her  own 
open  fire,  after  her  usual  twilight  walk.  It 
was  her  habit  to  wander  down  the  wooded 
road  after  her  simple  five-o'clock  supper, 
gathering  ferns  or  goldenrod  or  frost  flowers 
for  her  vases;  and  one  night  she  heard, 
above  the  rippling  of  the  river,  the  strange, 
sweet,  piercing  sound  of  Anthony  Croft's 
violin. 

She  drew  nearer,  and  saw  a  middle-aged 
man  sitting  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  with  a 
lad  of  ten  or  twelve  years  leaning  against 
his  knees.  She  could  tell  little  of  his  ap 
pearance,  save  that  he  had  a  high  forehead, 
and  hair  that  waved  well  back  from  it  in 
rather  an  unusual  fashion.  He  was  in  his 
shirt  -  sleeves,  but  the  gingham  was  scru 
pulously  clean,  and  he  had  the  uncommon 
refinement  of  a  collar  and  necktie.  Out  of 
sight  herself,  Lyddy  drew  near  enough  to 
hear ;  and  this  she  did  every  night  without 
recognizing  that  the  musician  was  blind. 
The  music  had  a  curious  effect  upon  her. 
It  was  a  hitherto  unknown  influence  in  her 
life,  and  it  interpreted  her,  so  to  speak,  to 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  165 

herself.  As  she  sat  on  the  bed  of  brown 
pine  needles,  under  a  friendly  tree,  her 
head  resting  against  its  trunk,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  the  tone  of  Anthony's  violin  came 
like  a  heavenly  message  to  a  tired,  despair 
ing  soul.  Remember  that  in  her  secluded 
life  she  had  heard  only  such  harmony  as 
Elvira  Reynolds  evoked  from  her  piano  or 
George  Reynolds  from  his  flute,  and  the 
Reynolds  temperament  was  distinctly  inar 
tistic. 

Lyddy  lived  through  a  lifetime  of  emo 
tion  in  these  twilight  concerts.  Sometimes 
she  was  filled  with  an  exquisite  melancholy 
from  which  there  was  no  escape ;  at  others, 
the  ethereal  purity  of  the  strain  stirred  her 
heart  with  a  strange,  sweet  vision  of  myste 
rious  joy;  joy  that  she  had  never  possessed, 
would  never  possess ;  joy  whose  bare  exist 
ence  she  never  before  realized.  When  the 
low  notes  sank  lower  and  lower  with  their 
soft  wail  of  delicious  woe,  she  bent  forward 
into  the  dark,  dreading  that  something  would 
be  lost  in  the  very  struggle  of  listening; 
then,  after  a  pause,  a  pure  human  tone 
would  break  the  stillness,  and  soaring,  bird- 
like,  higher  and  higher,  seem  to  mount  to 
heaven  itself,  and,  "piercing  its  starry 


166  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

floors,"  lift  poor  scarred  Lydia's  soul  to  the 
very  gates  of  infinite  bliss.  In  the  gentle 
moods  that  stole  upon  her  in  those  summer 
twilights  she  became  a  different  woman, 
softer  in  her  prosperity  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  adversity ;  for  some  plants  only 
blossom  in  sunshine.  What  wonder  if  to 
her  the  music  and  the  musician  became  one  ? 
It  is  sometimes  a  dangerous  thing  to  fuse 
the  man  and  his  talents  in  this  way;  but  it 
did  no  harm  here,  for  Anthony  Croft  was 
his  music,  and  the  music  was  Anthony 
Croft.  When  he  played  on  his  violin,  it 
was  as  if  the  miracle  of  its  fashioning  were 
again  enacted ;  as  if  the  bird  on  the  quiver 
ing  bough,  the  mellow  sunshine  streaming 
through  the  lattice  of  green  leaves,  the  tin 
kle  of  the  woodland  stream,  spoke  in  every 
tone;  and  more  than  this,  the  hearth-glow 
in  whose  light  the  patient  hands  had  worked, 
the  breath  of  the  soul  bending  itself  in  pas 
sionate  prayer  for  perfection,  these,  too, 
seemed  to  have  wrought  their  blessed  influ 
ence  on  the  willing  strings  until  the  tone 
was  laden  with  spiritual  harmony.  One 
might  indeed  have  sung  of  this  little  red 
violin  —  that  looked  to  Lyddy,  in  the  sunset 
glow,  as  if  it  were  veneered  with  rubies  — 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  167 

all  that  Shelley  sang  of  another  perfect  in 
strument  :  — 

"  The  artist  who  this  viol  wrought 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 
Of  the  wind-swept  Apennine ; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 
And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 
And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree  — 
O  that  such  our  death  may  be!  — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 
To  live  in  happier  form  again." 

The  viol  "whispers  in  enamoured  tone:  "  — 

"  Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells;  . 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 
And  airs  of  evening;  all  it  knew.  .  .  . 
—  All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it;  ... 
But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  one  beloved  Friend  alone." 

Lyddy  heard  the  violin  and  the   man's 
voice   as   he   talked   to   the  child,  —  heard 


168  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

t 

them  night  after  night ;  and  when  she  went 
home  to  the  little  brown  house  to  light  the 
fire  on  the  hearth  and  let  down  the  warm 
red  curtains,  she  fell  into  sweet,  sad  reve 
ries  ;  and  when  she  blew  out  her  candle  for 
the  night,  she  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  new 
dreams,  and  her  heart  was  stirred  with  the 
rustling  of  new-born  hopes  that  rose  and 
took  wing  like  birds  startled  from  their 
nests. 

v. 

"  Nor  scour  the  seas,  nor  sift  mankind, 
A  poet  or  a  friend  to  find: 
Behold,  he  watches  at  the  door! 
Behold  his  shadow  on  the  floor!  " 

EMERSON'S  Saadi. 

Lyddy  Butterfield's  hen  turkey  was  of  a 
roving  disposition.  She  had  never  appreci 
ated  her  luxurious  country  quarters  in  Edge- 
wood,  and  was  seemingly  anxious  to  return 
to  the  modest  back  yard  in  her  native  city. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  stray 
ing  far  from  home,  and  the  habit  was  grow 
ing  upon  her  to  such  an  extent  that  she 
would  even  lead  her  docile  little  gobblers 
down  to  visit  Anthony  Croft's  hens  and 
share  their  corn. 

Lyddy  had  caught  her  at  it  once,  and  was 
now  pursuing  her  to  that  end  for  the  second 


A    VILLAGE    STRADIVARIUS.  169 

time.  She  paused  in  front  of  the  house, 
but  there  were  no  turkeys  to  be  seen.  Could 
they  have  wandered  up  the  hill  road,  - 
the  discontented,  "traipsing,"  exasperating 
things?  She  started  in  that  direction,  when 
she  heard  a  crash  in  the  Croft  kitchen,  and 
then  the  sound  of  a  boy's  voice  coming  from 
an  inner  room,  —  a  weak  and  querulous 
voice,  as  if  the  child  were  ill. 

She  drew  nearer,  in  spite  of  her  dread  of 
meeting  people,  or  above  all  of  intruding, 
and  saw  Anthony  Croft  standing  over  the 
stove,  with  an  expression  of  utter  helpless 
ness  on  his  usually  placid  face.  She  had 
never  really  seen  him  before  in  the  daylight, 
and  there  was  something  about  his  appear 
ance  that  startled  her.  The  teakettle  was 
on  the  floor,  and  a  sea  of  water  was  flooding 
the  man's  feet,  yet  he  seemed  to  be  gazing 
into  vacancy.  Presently  he  stooped,  and 
fumbled  gropingly  for  the  kettle.  It  was 
too  hot  to  be  touched  with  impunity,  and  he 
finally  left  it  in  a  despairing  sort  of  way, 
and  walked  in  the  direction  of  a  shelf,  from 
under  which  a  row  of  coats  was  hanging. 
The  boy  called  again  in  a  louder  and  more 
insistent  tone,  ending  in  a  whimper  of  rest 
less  pain.  This  seemed  to  make  the  man 


170  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

more  nervous  than  ever.  His  hands  went 
patiently  over  and  over  the  shelf,  then 
paused  at  each  separate  nail. 

"Bless  the  poor  dear!"  thought  Lyddy. 
"Is  he  trying  to  find  his  hat,  or  what  is  he 
trying  to  do?  I  wonder  if  he  is  music 
mad?"  and  she  drew  still  nearer  the  steps. 

At  this  moment  he  turned  and  came  rap 
idly  toward  the  door.  She  looked  straight 
in  his  face.  There  was  no  mistaking  it :  he 
was  blind.  The  magician  who  had  told  her 
through  his  violin  secrets  that  she  had 
scarcely  dreamed  of,  the  wizard  who  had 
set  her  heart  to  throbbing  and  aching  and 
longing  as  it  had  never  throbbed  and  ached 
and  longed  before,  the  being  who  had  worn 
a  halo  of  romance  and  genius  to  her  simple 
mind,  was  stone-blind!  A  wave  of  impetu 
ous  anguish,  as  sharp  and  passionate  as  any 
she  had  ever  felt  for  her  own  misfortunes, 
swept  over  her  soul  at  the  spectacle  of  the 
man's  helplessness.  His  sightless  eyes  struck 
her  like  a  blow.  But  there  was  no  time  to 
lose.  She  was  directly  in  his  path:  if  she 
stood  still  he  would  certainly  walk  over  her, 
and  if  she  moved  he  would  hear  her,  so,  on 
the  *pur  of  the  moment,  she  gave  a  nervous 
cough  and  said,  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Croft." 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  171 

He  stopped  short.  "Who  is  it?  "  he 
asked. 

"I  am  —  it  is  —  I  am  —  your  new  neigh 
bor,"  said  Lyddy,  with  a  trembling  attempt 
at  cheerfulness. 

"Oh,  Miss  Butterfield!  I  should  have 
called  up  to  see  you  before  this  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  boy's  sickness.  But  I  am  a 
good-for-nothing  neighbor,  as  you  have 
doubtless  heard.  Nobody  expects  anything 
of  me." 

("Nobody  expects  anything  of  me."  Her 
own  plaint,  uttered  in  her  own  tone !) 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  answered 
swiftly.  "You  've  given  me,  for  one,  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  with  your  wonderful  music. 
I  often  hear  you  as  you  play  after  supper, 
and  it  has  kept  me  from  being  lonesome. 
That  isn't  very  much,  to  be  sure." 

"You  are  fond  of  music,  then?" 

"  I  did  n't  know  I  was ;  I  never  heard  any 
before,"  said  Lyddy  simply;  "but  it  seems 
to  help  people  to  say  things  they  could  n't 
say  for  themselves,  don't  you  think  so  ?  It 
comforts  me  even  to  hear  it,  and  I  think  it 
must  be  still  more  beautiful  to  make  it." 

Now,  Lyddy  Ann  Butterfield  had  no 
sooner  uttered  this  commonplace  speech  than 


172  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

the  reflection  darted  through  her  mind  like 
a  lightning  flash  that  she  had  never  spoken 
a  bit  of  her  heart  out  like  this  in  all  her 
life  before.  The  reason  came  to  her  in  the 
same  flash:  she  was  not  being  looked  at; 
her  disfigured  face  was  hidden.  This  man, 
at  least,  could  not  shrink,  turn  away,  shiver, 
affect  indifference,  fix  his  eyes  on  hers  with 
a  fascinated  horror,  as  others  had  done. 
Her  heart  was  divided  between  a  great  throb 
of  pity  and  sympathy  for  him  and  an  irre 
sistible  sense  of  gratitude  for  herself.  Sure 
of  protection  and  comprehension,  her  lovely 
soul  came  out  of  her  poor  eyes  and  sat  in 
the  sunshine.  She  spoke  her  mind  at  ease, 
as  we  utter  sacred  things  sometimes  under 
cover  of  darkness. 

"You  seem  to  have  had  an  accident;  what 
can  I  do  to  help  you? "  she  asked. 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  The  boy  has  been 
sick  for  some  days,  but  he  seems  worse  since 
last  night.  Nothing  is  in  its  right  place  in 
the  house,  so  I  have  given  up  trying  to  find 
anything,  and  am  just  going  to  Edge  wood  to 
see  if  somebody  will  help  me  for  a  few  days." 

"Uncle  Tony!  Uncle  To — ny !  where  are 
you?  Do  give  me  another  drink,  I  'm  so 
hot!  "  came  the  boy's  voice  from  within. 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  173 

"Coming,  laddie!  I  don't  believe  lie 
ought  to  drink  so  much  water,  but  what  can 
I  do?  He  is  burning  up  with  fever." 

"Now  look  here,  Mr.  Croft,"  and  Lydia's 
tone  was  cheerfully  decisive.  "You  sit  down 
in  that  rocker,  please,  and  let  me  command 
the  ship  for  a  while.  This  is  one  of  the  cases 
where  a  woman  is  necessary.  First  and  fore 
most,  what  were  you  hunting  for?  " 

"My  hat  and  the  butter,"  said  Anthony 
meekly,  and  at  this  unique  combination  they 
both  laughed.  Lyddy's  laugh  was  particu 
larly  fresh,  childlike,  and  pleased;  one  that 
would  have  astonished  the  Reynolds  children. 
She  had  seldom  laughed  heartily  since  little 
Rufus  had  cried  and  told  her  she  frightened 

O 

him  when  she  twisted  her  face  so. 

"Your  hat  is  in  the  wood-box,  and  I'll 
find  the  butter  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
though  why  you  want  it  now  is  more  than  — 
My  patience,  Mr.  Croft,  your  hand  is  burned 
to  a  blister!" 

"Don't  mind  me.  Be  good  enough  to 
look  at  the  boy  and  tell  me  what  ails  him ; 
nothing  else  matters  much." 

"  I  wilt  with  pleasure,  but  let  me  ease  you 
a  little  first.  Here  's  a  rag  that  will  be  just 
the  thing,"  and  Lyddy,  suiting  the  pretty 


174  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

action  to  the  mendacious  word,  took  a  good 
handkerchief  from  her  pocket  and  tore  it  in 
three  strips,  after  spreading  it  with  tallow 
from  a  candle  heated  over  the  stove.  This 
done,  she  bound  up  the  burned  hand  skill 
fully,  and,  crossing  the  dining-room,  disap 
peared  within  the  little  chamber  door  be 
yond.  She  came  out  presently,  and  said 
half  hesitatingly,  "Would  you  —  mind  — 
going  out  in  the  orchard  for  an  hour  or  so? 
You  seem  to  be  rather  in  the  way  here,  and 
I  should  like  the  place  to  myself,  if  you  '11 
excuse  me  for  saying  so.  I  'm  ever  so  much 
more  capable  than  Mrs.  Buck;  won't  you 
give  me  a  trial,  sir?  Here's  your  violin 
and  your  hat.  I  '11  call  you  if  you  can  help 
or  advise  me." 

"But  I  can't  let  a  stranger  come  in  and 
do  my  housework,"  he  objected.  "I  can't, 
you  know,  though  I  appreciate  your  kind 
ness  all  the  same." 

"I  am  your  nearest  neighbor,  and  your 
only  one,  for  that  matter,"  said  Lyddy 
firmly ;  "  it 's  nothing  more  than  right  that 
I  should  look  after  that  sick  child,  and  I 
must  do  it.  I  have  n't  got  a  thing  to  do  in 
my  own  house.  I  am  nothing  but  a  poor 
lonely  old  maid,  who  's  been  used  to  children 


A    VILLAGE    STRADIVARIUS.  175 

all  her  life,  and  likes  nothing  better  than  to 
work  over  them." 

A  calm  settled  upon  Anthony's  perturbed 
spirit,  as  he  sat  under  the  apple-trees  and 
heard  Lyddy  going  to  and  fro  in  the  cot 
tage.  "  She  is  n't  any  old  maid, "  he  thought ; 
"  she  does  n't  step  like  one ;  she  has  soft 
shoes  and  a  springy  walk.  She  must  be  a 
very  handsome  woman,  with  a  hand  like 
that ;  and  such  a  voice !  —  I  knew  the  mo 
ment  she  spoke  that  she  didn't  belong  in 
this  village." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  keen  ear  had 
caught  the  melody  in  Lyddy's  voice,  a  voice 
full  of  dignity,  sweetness,  and  reserve  power. 
His  sense  of  touch,  too,  had  captured  the 
beauty  of  her  hand,  and  held  it  in  remem 
brance,  —  the  soft  palm,  the  fine  skin,  sup 
ple  fingers,  smooth  nails,  and  firm  round 
wrist.  These  charms  would  never  have  been 
noted  by  any  seeing  man  in  Edgewood,  but 
they  were  revealed  to  Anthony  Croft  while 
Lyddy,  like  the  good  Samaritan,  bound  up 
his  wounds.  It  is  these  saving  stars  that 
light  the  eternal  darkness  of  the  blind. 

Lyddy  thought  she  had  met  her  Waterloo 
when,  with  arms  akimbo,  she  gazed  about 
the  Croft  establishment,  which  was  a  scene 


176  A    VILLAGE    STRADIVAR1US. 

of  desolation  for  the  moment.  Anthony's 
cousin  from  Bridgton  was  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  him  every  two  months  for  a  solemn 
house-cleaning,  and  Mrs.  Buck  from  Pleas 
ant  River  came  every  Saturday  and  Mon 
day  for  baking  and  washing.  Between  times 
Davy  and  his  uncle  did  the  housework  to 
gether;  and  although  it  was  respectably  done, 
there  was  no  pink-and-white  daintiness  about 
it,  you  may  be  sure. 

Lyddy  came  out  to  the  apple-trees  in 
about  an  hour,  laughing  a  little  nervously 
as  she  said,  "  I  'm  sorry  to  have  taken  a 
mean  advantage  of  you,  Mr.  Croft,  but  I 
know  everything  you  've  got  in  your  house, 
and  exactly  where  it  is.  I  could  n't  help  it, 
you  see,  when  I  was  making  things  tidy. 
It  would  do  you  good  to  see  the  boy.  His 
room  was  too  light,  and  the  flies  were  de 
vouring  him.  I  swept  him  and  dusted  him, 
put  on  clean  sheets  and  pillow  slips,  sponged 
him  with  bay  rum,  brushed  his  hair,  drove 
out  the  flies,  and  tacked  a  green  curtain  up 
to  the  window.  Fifteen  minutes  after  he 
was  sleeping  like  a  kitten.  He  has  a  sore 
throat  and  considerable  fever.  Could  you 
—  can  you  —  at  least,  will  you,  go  up  to  my 
house  on  an  errand?  " 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  177 

"Certainly  I  can.  I  know  it  inside  and 
out  as  well  as  my  own." 

"Very  good.  On  the  clock  shelf  in  the 
sitting-room  there  is  a  bottle  of  sweet  spirits 
of  nitre ;  it 's  the  only  bottle  there,  so  you 
can't  make  any  mistake.  It  will  help  until 
the  doctor  comes.  I  wonder  you  did  n't  send 
for  him  yesterday?  " 

"Davy  wouldn't  have  him,"  apologized 
his  uncle. 

"  Wouldn't  he?  "  said  Lyddy  with  cheer 
ful  scorn.  "He  has  you  under  pretty  good 
control,  hasn't  he?  But  children  are  un 
merciful  tyrants." 

"Couldn't  you  coax  him  into  it  before 
you  go  home?"  asked  Anthony  in  a  whee 
dling  voice. 

"  I  can  try ;  but  it  is  n't  likely  I  can  in 
fluence  him,  if  you  can't.  Still,  if  we  both 
fail,  I  really  don't  see  what 's  to  prevent  our 
sending  for  the  doctor  in  spite  of  him.  He 
is  as  weak  as  a  baby,  you  know,  and  can't 
sit  up  in  bed:  what  could  he  do?  I  will 
risk  the  consequences,  if  you  will!  " 

There  was  a  note  of  such  amiable  and 
winning  sarcasm  in  all  this,  such  a  cheery, 
invincible  courage,  such  a  friendly  neighbor- 
liness  and  cooperation,  above  all  such  a  dif- 


178  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

ferent  tone  from  any  he  was  accustomed  to 
hear  in  Edgewood,  that  Anthony  Croft  felt 
warmed  through  to  the  core. 

As  he  walked  quickly  along  the  road,  he 
conjured  up  a  vision  of  autumn  beauty  from 
the  few  hints  nature  gave  even  to  her  sight 
less  ones  on  this  glorious  morning,  — .  the 
rustle  of  a  few  fallen  leaves  under  his  feet, 
the  clear  wine  of  the  air,  the  full  rush  of 
the  swollen  river,  the  whisking  of  the  squir 
rels  in  the  boughs,  the  crunch  of  their  teeth 
on  the  nuts,  the  spicy  odor  of  the  apples 
lying  under  the  trees.     He  missed  his  mother 
that  morning  more  than  he  had  missed  her 
for  years.     How  neat  she  was,  how  thrifty, 
how  comfortable,  and  how  comforting !    His 
life  was  so  dreary  and  aimless;  and  was  it 
the  best  or  the  right  one  for  Davy,  with  his 
talent  and  dawning   ambition?     Would   it 
not  be  better  to  have  Mrs.  Buck  live  with 
them  altogether,  instead  of  coming  twice  a 
week,  as  heretofore?     No;  he  shrank  from 
that  with  a  hopeless  aversion  born  of  Satur 
day  and  Monday  dinners  in  her  company. 
He  could  hear  her  pour  her  coffee  into  the 
saucer ;  hear  the  scraping  of  the  cup  on  the 
rim,  and  know  that  she  was  setting  it  slop 
pily  down  on  the  cloth.     He  could  remem- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  179 

ber  her  noisy  drinking,  the  weight  of  her 
elbow  on  the  table,  the  creaking  of  her  cal 
ico  dress  under  the  pressure  of  superabun 
dant  flesh.  Besides,  she  had  tried  to  scrub 
his  favorite  violin  with  sapolio.  No,  any 
thing  was  better  than  Mrs.  Buck  as  a  con 
stancy. 

He  took  off  his  hat  unconsciously  as  he 
entered  Lyddy's  sitting-room.  A  gentle 
breeze  blew  one  of  the  full  red  curtains 
towards  him  till  it  fluttered  about  his  shoul 
ders  like  a  frolicsome,  teasing  hand.  There 
was  a  sweet,  pungent  odor  of  pine  boughs, 
a  canary  sang  in  the  window,  the  clock  was 
trimmed  with  a  blackberry  vine;  he  knew 
the  prickles,  and  they  called  up  to  his  mind 
the  glowing  tints  he  had  loved  so  well.  His 
sensitive  hand,  that  carried  a  divining  rod 
in  every  finger-tip,  met  a  vase  on  the  shelf, 
and,  traveling  upward,  touched  a  full  branch 
of  alder  berries  tied  about  with  a  ribbon. 
The  ribbon  would  be  red ;  the  woman  who 
arranged  this  room  would  make  no  mistake; 
for  in  one  morning  Anthony  Croft  had  pene 
trated  the  secret  of  Lyddy's  true  personality, 
and  in  a  measure  had  sounded  the  shallows 
that  led  to  the  depths  of  her  nature. 

Lyddy  went  home  at  seven  o'clock  that 


180  A    VILLAGE    STRADIVARI  US. 

night  rather  reluctantly.  The  doctor  had 
said  Mr.  Croft  could  sit  up  with  the  boy 
unless  he  grew  much  worse,  and  there  was 
no  propriety  in  her  staying  longer  unless 
there  was  danger. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me,"  An 
thony  said  gravely,  as  he  shook  her  hand  at 
parting,  —  "very  good." 

They  stood  together  on  the  doorstep.  A 
distant  bell  called  to  evening  prayer-meet 
ing;  the  restless  murmur  of  the  river  and 
the  whisper  of  the  wind  in  the  pines  broke 
the  twilight  stillness.  The  long,  quiet  day 
together,  part  of  it  spent  by  the  sick  child's 
bedside,  had  brought  the  two  strangers  curi 
ously  near  to  each  other. 

"The  house  hasn't  seemed  so  sweet  and 
fresh  since  my  mother  died,"  he  went  on, 
as  he  dropped  her  hand,  "and  I  haven't 
had  so  many  flowers  and  green  things  in  it 
since  I  lost  my  eyesight." 

"Was  it  long  ago?" 

"Ten  years.     Is  that  long?  " 

"Long  to  bear  a  burden." 

"I  hope  you  know  little  of  burden-bear- 
ing?" 

"I  know  little  else." 

"I  might  have  guessed  it  from  the  alac- 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVAR1US.  181 

rity  with  which  you  took  up  Davy's  and 
mine.  You  must  be  very  happy  to  have 
the  power  to  make  things  straight  and  sunny 
and  wholesome;  to  breathe  your  strength 
into  helplessness  such  as  mine.  I  thank 
you,  and  I  envy  you.  Good-night." 

Lyddy  turned  on  her  heel  without  a  word ; 
her  mind  was  beyond  and  above  words. 
The  sky  seemed  to  have  descended  upon, 
enveloped  her,  caught  her  up  into  its  heaven, 
as  she  rose  into  unaccustomed  heights  of 
feeling,  like  Elijah  in  his  chariot  of  fire. 
She  very  happy!  She  with  power,  power 
to  make  things  straight  and  sunny  and 
wholesome!  She  able  to  breathe  strength 
into  helplessness,  even  a  consecrated,  God- 
smitten  helplessness  like  his !  She  not  only 
to  be  thanked,  but  envied ! 

Her  house  seemed  strange  to  her  that 
night.  She  went  to  bed  in  the  dark,  dread 
ing  even  the  light  of  a  candle ;  and  before 
she  turned  down  her  counterpane  she  flung 
herself  on  her  knees,  and  poured  out  her  soul 
in  a  prayer  that  had  been  growing,  waiting, 
and  waited  for,  perhaps,  for  years :  — 

"O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  for  health  and 
strength  and  life.  I  never  could  do  it  be 
fore,  but  I  thank  Thee  to-night  for  life  on 


182  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US. 

any  terms.  I  thank  Thee  for  this  home; 
for  the  chance  of  helping  another  human 
creature,  stricken  like  myself ;  for  the  privi 
lege  of  ministering  to  a  motherless  child. 
Make  me  to  long  only  for  the  beauty  of 
holiness,  and  to  be  satisfied  if  I  attain  to 
it.  Wash  my  soul  pure  and  clean,  and  let 
that  be  the  only  mirror  in  which  I  see  my 
face.  I  have  tried  to  be  useful.  Forgive 
me  if  it  always  seemed  so  hard  and  dreary 
a  life.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  too  happy  be 
cause  for  one  short  day  I  have  really  helped 
in  a  beautiful  way,  and  found  a  friend  who 
saw,  because  he  was  blind,  the  real  me  un 
derneath  ;  the  me  that  never  was  burned  by 
the  fire ;  the  me  that  is  n't  disfigured,  unless 
my  wicked  discontent  has  done  it;  the  me 
that  has  lived  on  and  on  and  on,  starving  to 
death  for  the  friendship  and  sympathy  and 
love  that  come  to  other  women.  I  have 
spent  rny  forty  years  in  the  wilderness,  feed 
ing  on  wrath  and  bitterness  and  tears.  For 
give  me,  Lord,  and  give  me  one  more  vision 
of  the  blessed  land  of  Canaan,  even  if  I 
never  dwell  there." 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARI  US.  183 


VI. 

"  Nor  less  the  eternal  poles 
Of  tendency  distribute  souls. 
There  need  no  vows  to  bind 
Whom  not  each  other  seek,  but  find." 

EMERSON'S  .Celestial  Love. 

Davy's  sickness  was  a  lingering  one. 
Mrs.  Buck  came  for  two  or  three  hours  a 
day,  but  Lyddy  was  the  self -installed  angel 
of  the  house ;  and  before  a  week  had  passed 
the  boy's  thin  arms  were  around  her  neck, 
his  head  on  her  loving  shoulder,  and  his 
cheek  pressed  against  hers.  Anthony  could 
hear  them  talk,  as  he  sat  in  the  kitchen 
busy  at  his  work.  Musical  instruments  were 
still  brought  him  to  repair,  though  less  fre 
quently  than  of  yore,  and  he  could  still 
make  many  parts  of  violins  far  better  than 
his  seeing  competitors.  A  friend  and  pupil 
sat  by  his  side  in  the  winter  evenings  and 
supplemented  his  weakness,  helping  and 
learning  alternately,  while  his  blind  master's 
skill  filled  him  with  wonder  and  despair. 
The  years  of  struggle  for  perfection  had  not 
been  wasted ;  and  though  the  eye  that  once 
detected  the  deviation  of  a  hair's  breadth 
could  no  longer  tell  the  true  from  the  false, 
yet  nature  had  been  busy  with  her  divine 


184  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

work  of  compensation.  The  one  sense 
stricken  with  death,  she  poured  floods  of 
new  life  and  vigor  into  the  others.  Touch 
became  something  more  than  the  stupid, 
empty  grasp  of  things  we  seeing  mortals 
know,  and  in  place  of  the  two  eyes  he  had 
lost  he  now  had  ten  in  every  finger-tip.  As 
for  odors,  let  other  folks  be  proud  of  smell 
ing  musk  and  lavender,  but  let  him  tell  you 
by  a  quiver  of  the  nostrils  the  various  kinds 
of  so-called  scentless  flowers,  and  let  him 
bend  his  ear  and  interpret  secrets  that  the 
universe  is  ever  whispering  to  us  who  are 
pent  in  partial  deafness  because,  forsooth, 
we  see. 

He  often  paused  to  hear  Lydia's  low, 
soothing  tones  and  the  boy's  weak  treble. 
Anthony  had  said  to  him  once,  "Miss  But- 
terfield  is  very  beautiful,  isn't  she,  Davy? 
You  haven't  painted  me  a  picture  of  her 
yet.  How  does  she  look?" 

Davy  was  stricken  at  first  with  silent  em 
barrassment.  He  was  a  truthful  child,  but 
in  this  he  could  no  more  have  told  the  whole 
truth  than  he  could  have  cut  off  his  hand 
He  was  knit  to  Lyddy  by  every  tie  of  grati 
tude  and  affection.  He  would  sit  for  hours 
with  his  expectant  face  pressed  against  the 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  185 

window-pane,  and  when  lie  saw  her  coming 
down  the  shady  road  he  was  filled  with  a 
sense  of  impending  comfort  and  joy. 

"No,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "she  isn't 
pretty,  nunky,  but  she 's  sweet  and  nice 
and  dear.  Everything  on  her  shines,  it 's 
so  clean ;  and  when  she  comes  through  the 
trees,  with  her  white  apron  and  her  purple 
calico  dress,  your  heart  jumps,  because  you 
know  she  's  going  to  make  everything  pleas 
ant.  Her  hair  has  a  pretty  wave  in  it,  and 
her  hand  is  soft  on  your  forehead ;  and  it 's 
most  worth  while  being  sick  just  to  have  her 
in  the  house." 

Meanwhile,  so  truly  is  "praise  our  fructi 
fying  sun,"  Lydia  bloomed  into  a  hundred 
hitherto  unsuspected  graces  of  mind  and 
heart  and  speech.  A  sly  sense  of  humor 
woke  into  life,  and  a  positive  talent  for 
conversation,  latent  hitherto  because  she  had 
never  known  any  one  who  cared  to  drop  a 
plummet  into  the  crystal  springs  of  her  con 
sciousness.  When  the  violin  was  laid  away, 
she  would  sit  in  the  twilight,  by  Davy's 
sofa,  his  thin  hand  in  hers,  and  talk  with 
Anthony  about  books  and  flowers  and  music, 
and  about  the  meaning  of  life,  too,  —  its 
burdens  and  mistakes,  and  joys  and  sorrows; 


186  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

groping  with  him  in  the  darkness  to  find  a 
clue  to  God's  purposes. 

Davy  had  long  afternoons  at  Lyddy 's 
house  as  the  autumn  grew  into  winter.  lie 
read  to  her  while  she  sewed  rags  for  a  new 
sitting-room  carpet,  and  they  played  domi 
noes  and  checkers  together  in  the  twilight 
before  supper  time,  —  suppers  that  were  a 
feast  to  the  boy,  after  Mrs.  Buck's  cookery. 
Anthony  brought  his  violin  sometimes  of  an 
evening,  and  Almira  Berry,  the  next  neigh 
bor  on  the  road  to  the  Mills,  would  drop  in 
and  join  the  little  party.  Almira  used  to 
sing  Auld  Robin  Gray,  What  Will  You 
Do,  Love,  and  Robin  Adair,  to  the  great 
enjoyment  of  everybody;  and  she  persuaded 
Lyddy  to  buy  the  old  church  melodeon, 
and  learn  to  sing  alto  in  Oh,  Wert  Thou 
in  the  Cauld  Blast,  Gently,  Gently  Sighs 
the  Breeze,  and  I  Know  a  Bank.  Nobody 
sighed  for  the  gayeties  and  advantages  of  a 
great  city  when,  these  concerts  being  over, 
Lyddy  would  pass  crisp  seedcakes  and  rasp 
berry  shrub,  doughnuts  and  cider,  or  hot 
popped  corn  and  molasses  candy. 

"  But  there,  she  can  afford  to,"  said 
aunt  Hitty  Tarbox;  "  she  's  pretty  middlin' 
wealthy  for  Edge  wood.  And  it 's  lucky  she 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  187 

is,  for  she  'bout  feeds  that  boy  o'  Croft's. 
No  wonder  he  wants  her  to  fill  him  up,  af 
ter  six  years  of  the  Widder  Buck's  victuals. 
Aurelia  Buck  can  take  good  flour  and  sugar, 
sweet  butter  and  fresh  eggs,  and  in  ten 
strokes  of  her  hand  she  can  make  'em  into 
something  the  very  hogs  '11  turn  away  from. 
I  declare,  it  brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes  some 
times  when  I  see  her  coming  out  of  Croft's 
Saturday  afternoons,  and  think  of  the  stone 
crocks  full  of  nasty  messes  she 's  left  be 
hind  her  for  that  innocent  man  and  boy 
to  eat  up.  .  .  .  Anthony  goes  to  see  Miss 
Butterfield  consid'able  often.  Of  course  it 's 
awstensibly  to  walk  home  with  Davy,  or  do 
an  errand  or  something,  but  everybody  knows 
better.  She  went  down  to  Croft's  pretty 
nearly  every  day  when  his  cousin  from 
Bridgton  come  to  house-clean.  She  suspi- 
cioned  something,  I  guess.  Anyhow,  she 
asked  me  if  Miss  Butterfield' s  two  hundred 
a  year  was  in  gov'ment  bonds.  Anthony's 
eyesight  ain't  good,  but  I  guess  he  could 
make  out  to  cut  cowpons  off.  ...  It  would 
be  strange  if  them  two  left-overs  should 
take  an'  marry  each  other;  though,  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  don't  know 's  't  would  neither. 
He  's  blind,  to  be  sure,  and  can't  see  her 


188  A    VILLAGE  STRADIVARIUS. 

scarred  face.  It 's  a  pity  she  ain't  deef , 
so  't  she  can't  hear  his  everlastin'  fiddle. 
She 's  lucky  to  get  any  kind  of  a  husband ; 
she  's  too  humbly  to  choose.  I  declare,  she 
reminds  me  of  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  though  if 
you  look  at  the  back  of  her,  or  see  her  in 
meetin'  with  a  thick  veil  on,  she  's  about  the 
best  appearin'  woman  in  Edgewood.  .  .  . 
I  never  see  anybody  stiffen  up  as  Anthony 
has.  He  had  me  make  him  three  white 
shirts  and  three  gingham  ones,  with  collars 
and  cuffs  on  all  of  'em.  It  seems  as  if  six 
shirts  at  one  time  must  mean  something  out 
o'  the  common!  " 

Aunt  Hitty  was  right ;  it  did  mean  some 
thing  out  of  the  common.  It  meant  the 
growth  of  an  all-engrossing,  grateful,  di 
vinely  tender  passion  between  two  love- 
starved  souls.  On  the  one  hand,  Lyddy, 
who  though  she  had  scarcely  known  the 
meaning  of  love  in  all  her  dreary  life,  yet 
was  as  full  to  the  brim  of  all  sweet,  womanly 
possibilities  of  loving  and  giving  as  any 
pretty  woman ;  on  the  other,  the  blind  vio 
lin-maker,  who  had  never  loved  any  woman 
but  his  mother,  and  who  was  in  the  direst 
need  of  womanly  sympathy  and  affection. 

Anthony  Croft,  being  ministered  unto  by 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  189 

Lyddy's  kind  hands,  hearing  her  sweet  voice 
and  her  soft  footstep,  saw  her  as  God  sees, 
knowing  the  best ;  forgiving  the  worst,  like 
God,  and  forgetting  it,  still  more  like  God, 
I  think. 

And  Lyddy  ?  There  is  no  pen  worthy  to 
write  of  Lyddy.  Her  joy  lay  deep  in  her 
heart  like  a  jewel  at  the  bottom  of  a  clear 
pool,  so  deep  that  no  ripple  or  ruffle  on  the 
surface  could  disturb  the  hidden  treasure. 
If  God  had  smitten  these  two  with  one 
hand,  he  had  held  out  the  other  in  tender 
benediction. 

There  had  been  a  pitiful  scene  of  un 
speakable  solemnity  when  Anthony  first  told 
Lyddy  that  he  loved  her,  and  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife.  He  had  heard  all  her  sad  his 
tory  by  this  time,  though  not  from  her  own 
lips,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  her  all  the 
more  for  the  heavy  cross  that  had  been  laid 
upon  her.  He  had  the  wit  and  wisdom  to 
put  her  affliction  quite  out  of  the  question, 
and  allude  only  to  her  sacrifice  in  marrying 
a  blind  man,  hopelessly  and  helplessly  de 
pendent  on  her  sweet  offices  for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  if  she,  in  her  womanly  mercy,  would 
love  him  and  help  him  bear  his  burdens. 

When  his  tender  words  fell  upon  Lyddy's 


190  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

dazed  brain  she  sank  beside  his  chair,  and, 
clasping  his  knees,  sobbed:  "I  love  you,  I 
cannot  help  loving  you,  I  cannot  help  tell 
ing  you  I  love  you!  But  you  must  hear 
the  truth;  you  have  heard  it  from  others, 
but  perhaps  they  softened  it.  If  I  marry 
you,  people  will  always  blame  me  and  pity 
you.  You  would  never  ask  me  to  be  your 
wife  if  you  could  see  my  face ;  you  could  not 
love  me  an  instant  if  you  were  not  blind." 

"Then  I  thank  God  unceasingly  for  my 
infirmity,"  said  Anthony  Croft,  as  he  raised 
her  to  her  feet. 

Anthony  and  Lyddy  Croft  sat  in  the  ap 
ple  orchard,  one  warm  day  in  late  spring. 

Anthony's  work  would  have  puzzled  a 
casual  on  -  looker.  Ten  stout  wires  were 
stretched  between  two  trees,  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  apart,  and  each  group  of  five 
represented  the  lines  of  the  musical  staff. 
Wooden  bars  crossed  the  wires  at  regular 
intervals,  dividing  the  staff  into  measures. 
A  box  with  many  compartments  sat  on  a 
stool  beside  him,  and  this  held  bits  of  wood 
that  looked  like  pegs,  but  were  in  reality 
whole,  half,  quarter,  and  eighth  notes,  rests, 
flats,  sharps,  and  the  like.  These  were  cleft 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  191 

in  such  a  way  that  he  could  fit  them  on  the 
wires  almost  as  rapidly  as  his  musical  theme 
came  to  him,  and  Lyddy  had  learned  to 
transcribe  with  pen  and  ink  the  music  she 
found  in  wood  and  wire.  He  could  write 
only  simple  airs  in  this  way,  but  when  he 
played  them  on  the  violin  they  were  trans 
ported  into  a  loftier  region,  such  genius  lay 
in  the  harmony,  the  arabesque,  the  delicate 
lacework  of  embroidery  with  which  the  tune 
was  inwrought;  now  high,  now  low,  now 
major,  now  minor,  now  sad,  now  gay,  with 
the  one  thrilling,  haunting  cadence  recur 
ring  again  and  again,  to  be  watched  for, 
longed  for,  and  greeted  with  a  throb  of  de 
light. 

Davy  was  reading  at  the  window,  his 
curly  head  buried  in  a  well  -  worn  Shake 
speare  opened  at  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Lyddy  was  sitting  under  her  favorite  pink 
apple-tree,  a  mass  of  fragrant  bloom,  more 
beautiful  than  Aurora's  morning  gown.  She 
was  sewing ;  lining  with  snowy  lawn  innu 
merable  pockets  in  a  square  basket  that  she 
held  in  her  lap.  The  pockets  were  small, 
the  needles  were  fine,  the  thread  was  a 
length  of  cobweb.  Everything  about  the 
basket  was  small  except  the  hopes  that  she 


192  A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS. 

was  stitching  into  it;  they  were  so  great 
that  her  heart  could  scarcely  hold  them. 
Nature  was  stirring  everywhere.  The  seeds 
were  springing  in  the  warm  earth.  The 
hens  were  clucking  to  their  downy  chicks 
just  out  of  the  egg.  The  birds  were  flying 
hither  and  thither  in  the  apple  boughs,  and 
there  was  one  little  home  of  straw  so  hung 
that  Lyddy  could  look  into  it  and  see  the 
patient  mother  brooding  her  nestlings.  The 
sight  of  her  bright  eyes,  alert  for  every  sign 
of  danger,  sent  a  rush  of  feeling  through 
Lyddy 's  veins  that  made  her  long  to  clasp  the 
little  feathered  mother  to  her  own  breast. 

A  sweet  gravity  and  consecration  of 
thought  possessed  her,  and  the  pink  blos 
soms  falling  into  her  basket  were  not  more 
delicate  than  the  rose-colored  dreams  that 
flushed  her  soul. 

Anthony  put  in  the  last  wooden  peg,  and 
taking  up  his  violin  called,  "Davy,  lad, 
come  out  and  tell  me  what  this  means! " 

Davy  was  used  to  this ;  from  a  wee  boy 
he  had  been  asked  to  paint  the  changing 
landscape  of  each  day,  and  to  put  into 
words  his  uncle's  music. 

Lyddy  dropped  her  needle,  the  birds 
stopped  to  listen,  and  Anthony  played. 


A    VILLAGE   STRADIVARIUS.  193 

"It  is  this  apple  orchard  in  May  time," 
said  Davy;  "it  is  the  song  of  the  green 
things  growing,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"What  do  you  say,  dear?"  asked  An 
thony,  turning  to  his  wife. 

Love  and  hope  had  made  a  poet  of  Lyddy. 
"I  think  Davy  is  right,"  she  said.  "It  is 
a  dream  of  the  future,  the  story  of  all  new 
and  beautiful  things  growing  out  of  the  old. 
It  is  full  of  the  sweetness  of  present  joy, 
but  there  is  promise  and  hope  in  it  besides. 
It  is  like  the  Spring  sitting  in  the  lap  of 
Winter,  and  holding  a  baby  Summer  in  her 
bosom." 

Davy  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though 
he  thought  it  pretty ;  but  Lyddy's  husband 
did,  and  when  the  boy  went  back  to  his 
books,  he  took  his  wife  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  twice,  —  once  for  herself,  and 
then  once  again. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  CRY. 


THE   EVENTFUL  TRIP   OF  THE    MID 
NIGHT   CRY. 

IN  the  little  villages  along  the  Saco  River, 
in  the  year  1850  or  thereabouts,  the  arrival 
and  departure  of  the  stage-coach  was  the 
one  exciting  incident  of  the  day.  It  did 
not  run  on  schedule  time  in  those  days,  but 
started  from  Limington  or  Saco,  as  the  case 
might  be,  at  about  or  somewhere  near  a 
certain  hour,  and  arrived  at  the  other  end 
of  the  route  whenever  it  got  there.  There 
were  no  trains  to  meet  (the  railway  popu 
larly  known  as  the  "  York  and  Yank'em " 
was  not  built  till  1862)  ;  the  roads  were  oc 
casionally  good  and  generally  bad ;  and  thus 
it  was  often  dusk,  and  sometimes  late  in  the 
evening,  when  the  lumbering  vehicle  neared 
its  final  destination  and  drew  up  to  the  little 
post-offices  along  the  way.  However  late  it 
might  be,  the  village  postmaster  had  to  be 
on  hand  to  receive  and  open  the  mailbags ; 
after  which  he  distributed  the  newspapers 
and  letters  in  a  primitive  set  of  pine  pigeon- 


198  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

holes  on  the  wall,  turned  out  the  loafers, 
"  banked  up  "  the  fire,  and  went  home  to 
bed.  . 

"  Life  "  Lane  was  a  jolly  good  fellow,  — 
just  the  man  to  sit  on  the  box  seat  and  drive 
the  three  horses  through  ruts  and  "  thank- 
you-ma'ams,"  slush  and  mud  and  snow. 
There  was  a  perennial  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
his  ruddy  cheeks  were  wrinkled  with  laugh 
ter,  and  he  had  a  good  story  forever  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue.  He  stood  six  feet  two 
in  his  stockings  (his  mother  used  to  say  she 
had  the  longest  Life  of  any  woman  in  the 
State  o'  Maine)  ;  his  shoulders  were  broad 
in  proportion,  and  his  lungs  just  the  sort  to 
fill  amply  his  noble  chest.  Therefore,  when 
he  had  what  was  called  in  the  vernacular 
"  tumble  bad  goin',''  and  when  any  other 
stage-driver  in  York  County  would  have 
shrunk  into  his  muffler  and  snapped  and 
snarled  on  the  slightest  provocation,  Life 
Lane  opened  his  great  throat  when  he 
passed  over  the  bridges  at  Moderation  or 
Bonny  Eagle,  and  sent  forth  a  golden,  sono 
rous  "Yo  ho!  halloo!"  into  the  still  air. 
The  later  it  was  and  the  stormier  it  was, 
the  more  vigor  he  put  into  the  note,  and  it 
was  a  drowsy  postmaster  indeed  who  did 


THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY.  199 

not  start  from  his  bench  by  the  fire  at  the 
sound  of  that  ringing  halloo.  Thus  the 
old  stage-coach,  in  Life  Lane's  time,  was 
generally  called  "  The  Midnight  Cry,"  and 
not  such  a  bad  name  either,  whether  the 
term  was  derisively  applied  because  the 
stage  was  always  late,  or  whether  Life's 
"  Yo  ho !  "  had  caught  the  popular  fancy. 

There  was  a  pretty  girl  in  Pleasant  River 
(and,  alas !  another  in  Bonny  Eagle)  who 
went  to  bed  every  night  with  the  chickens, 
but  stayed  awake  till  she  heard  first  the 
rumble  of  heavy  wheels  on  a  bridge,  then  a 
faint,  bell-like  tone  that  might  have  come 
out  of  the  mouth  of  a  silver  horn  ;  where 
upon  she  blushed  as  if  it  were  an  offer  of 
marriage,  and  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  stage  arrived  in  good  season,  Life 
would  have  a  few  minutes  to  sit  on  the 
loafers'  bench  beside  the  big  open  fire ;  and 
what  a  feature  he  was,  with  his  tales  culled 
from  all  sorts  of  passengers,  who  were  never 
so  fluent  as  when  sitting  beside  him  "  up  in 
front !  "  There  was  a  tallow  dip  or  two,  and 
no  other  light  save  that  of  the  fire.  Who 
that  ever  told  a  story  could  wish  a  more 
inspiring  auditor  than  Jacob  Bean,  a  lit 
eral,  honest  old  fellow  who  took  the  most 


200  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

vital  interest  in  every  detail  of  the  stories 
told,  looking  upon  their  heroes  and  their 
villains  as  personal  friends  or  foes.  He 
always  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  fireplace, 
poker  in  hand,  and  the  crowd  tacitly  allowed 
him  the  role  of  Greek  chorus.  Indeed,  no 
body  could  have  told  a  story  properly  with 
out  Jake  Bean's  parentheses  and  punctua 
tion  marks  poked  in  at  exciting  junctures. 

"  That  's  so  every  time  !  "  he  would  say, 
with  a  lunge  at  the  forestick.  "  I  '11  bate 
he  was  glad  then  !  "  with  another  stick 
flung  011  in  just  the  right  spot.  "  Golly ! 
but  that  served  'em  right !  "  with  a  thrust  at 
the  backlog. 

The  New  England  story  seemed  to  flour 
ish  under  these  conditions :  a  couple  of  good 
hard  benches  in  a  store  or  tavern,  where 
you  could  not  only  smoke  and  chew  but 
could  keep  011  your  hat  (there  was  not  a 
man  in  York  County  in  those  days  who 
could  say  anything  worth  hearing  with  his 
hat  off)  ;  the  blazing  logs  to  poke ;  and  a 
cavernous  fireplace  into  which  tobacco  juice 
could  be  neatly  and  judiciously  directed. 
Those  were  good  old  times,  and  the  stage 
coach  was  a  mighty  thing  when  school  chil 
dren  were  taught  to  take  off  their  hats  and 


THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY.  201 

make  a  bow  as  the  United  States  mail  passed 
the  old  stage  tavern. 

Life  Lane's  coaching  days  were  over  long 
before  this  story  begins,  but  the  Midnight 
Cry  was  still  in  pretty  fair  condition,  and 
was  driven  ostensibly  by  Jeremiah  Todd, 
who  lived  on  the  "  back-nippin'  "  road  from 
Bonny  Eagle  to  Limington. 

When  I  say  ostensibly  driven,  I  but 
follow  the  lead  of  the  villagers,  who  de 
clared  that,  though  Jerry  held  the  reins, 
Mrs.  Todd  drove  the  stage,  as  she  drove 
everything  else.  As  a  proof  of  this  lady's 
strong  individuality,  she  was  still  generally 
spoken  of  as  "  the  Widder  Bixby,"  though 
she  had  been  six  years  wedded  to  Jere 
miah  Todd.  The  Widder  Bixby,  then, 
was  strong,  self-reliant,  valiant,  indomitable. 
Jerry  Todd  was,  to  use  his  wife's  own  charac 
terization,  so  soft  you  could  stick  a  cat's  tail 
into  him  without  ruffling  the  fur.  He  was 
always  alluded  to  as  "  the  Widder  Bixby's 
husband  ;  "  but  that  was  no  new  or  special 
mortification,  for  he  had  been  known  succes 
sively  as  Mrs.  Todd's  youngest  baby,  the 
Widder  Todd's  only  son,  Susan  Todd's 
brother,  and,  when  Susan  Todd's  oldest  boy 
fought  at  Chapultepec,  William  Peck's 
uncle. 


202  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

The  Widder  Bixby's  record  was  far  dif 
ferent.  She  was  the  mildest  of  the  four 
Stover  sisters  of  Scarboro,  and  the  quartette 
was  supposed  to  have  furnished  more  kinds 
of  temper  than  had  ever  before  come  from 
one  household.  When  Peace,  the  eldest, 
was  mad,  she  frequently  kicked  the  churn 
out  of  the  kitchen  door,  cream  and  all,  — 
and  that  lost  her  a  husband. 

Love,  the  second,  married,  and  according 
to  local  tradition  once  licked  her  husband 
all  the  way  up  Foolscap  Hill  with  a  dried 
cod-fish. 

Charity,  the  third,  married  too,  —  for  the 
Stovers  of  Scarboro  were  handsome  girls,  — 
but  she  got  a  fit  mate  in  her  spouse.  She 
failed  to  intimidate  him,  for  he  was  a  foeman 
worthy  of  her  steel ;  but  she  left  his  bed  and 
board,  and  left  in  a  manner  that  kept  up  the 
credit  of  the  Stover  family  of  Scarboro. 

They  had  had  a  stormy  breakfast  one  morn 
ing  before  he  started  to  Portland  with  a  load 
of  hay.  "  Good-by,"  she  called,  as  she  stood 
in  the  door,  "  you  've  seen  the  last  of  me  !  " 
"  No  such  luck  !  "  he  said,  and  whipped  up 
his  horse.  Charity  baked  a  great  pile  of  bis 
cuits,  and  left  them  on  the  kitchen  table  with 
a  pitcher  of  skimmed  milk.  (She  would  n't 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  203 

give  him  anything  to  complain  of,  not  she !) 
She  then  put  a  few  clothes  in  a  bundle,  and, 
tying  on  her  shaker,  prepared  to  walk  to 
Pleasant  Kiver,  twelve  miles  distant.  As 
she  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  its 
accustomed  place  under  the  mat,  a  pleasant 
young  man  drove  up  and  explained  that  he 
was  the  advance  agent  of  the  Sypher's  Two- 
in-One  Menagerie  and  Circus,  soon  to  appear 
in  that  vicinity.  He  added  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  give  her  five  tickets  to  the  entertain 
ment  if  she  would  allow  him  to  paste  a  few 
handsome  posters  011  that  side  of  her  barn 
next  the  road  ;  that  their  removal  was  at 
tended  with  trifling  difficulty,  owing  to  the 
nature  of  a  very  superior  paste  invented  by 
himself  ;  that  any  small  boy,  in  fact,  could 
tear  them  off  in  an  hour,  and  be  well  paid  by 
the  gift  of  a  ticket. 

The  devil  entered  into  Charity  (not  by  any 
means  for  the  first  time),  and  she  told  the 
man  composedly  that  if  he  would  give  her 
ten  tickets  he  might  paper  over  the  cottage 
as  well  as  the  barn,  for  they  were  going  to 
tear  it  down  shortly  and  build  a  larger  one. 
The  advance  agent  was  delighted,  and  they 
passed  a  pleasant  hour  together;  Charity 
holding  the  paste-pot,  while  the  talkative 


204  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

gentleman  glued  six  lions  and  an  elephant 
on  the  roof,  a  fat  lady  on  the  front  door,  a 
tattooed  man  between  the  windows,  living 
skeletons  on  the  blinds,  and  ladies  insuffi 
ciently  clothed  in  all  the  vacant  spaces  and 
on  the  chimneys.  Nobody  went  by  during 
the  operation,  and  the  agent  remarked,  as 
he  unhitched  his  horse,  that  he  had  never 
done  a  neater  job.  "Why,  they  '11  come  as 
far  to  see  your  house  as  they  will  to  the  cir 
cus  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  calculate  they  will,"  said  Charity,  as 
she  latched  the  gate  and  started  for  Pleasant 
River. 

I  am  not  telling  Charity  Stover's  story,  so 
I  will  only  add  that  the  bill-poster  was  mis 
taken  in  the  nature  of  his  paste,  and  greatly 
undervalued  its  adhesive  properties. 

The  temper  of  Prudence,  the  youngest  sis 
ter,  now  Mrs.  Todd,  paled  into  insignificance 
beside  that  of  the  others,  but  it  was  a  very 
pretty  thing  in  tempers  nevertheless,  and 
would  have  been  thought  remarkable  in  any 
other  family  in  Scarboro. 

You  may  have  noted  the  fact  that  it 
is  a  person's  virtues  as  often  as  his  vices 
that  make  him  difficult  to  live  with.  Mrs. 
Todd's  masterfulness  and  even  her  jealousy 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  205 

might  have  been  endured,  by  the  aid  of  fast 
ing  and  prayer,  but  her  neatness,  her  economy, 
and  her  forehandedness  made  a  combination 
that  only  the  grace  of  God  could  have  abided 
with  comfortably,  so  that  Jerry  Todd's  com 
parative  success  is  a  matter  of  local  tradition. 
Punctuality  is  a  praiseworthy  virtue  enough, 
but  as  the  years  went  on,  Mrs.  Todd  blew 
her  breakfast  horn  at  so  early  an  hour  that 
the  neighbors  were  in  some  doubt  as  to 
whether  it  might  not  herald  the  supper  of  the 
day  before.  They  also  predicted  that  she 
would  have  her  funeral  before  she  was  fairly 
dead,  and  related  with  great  gusto  that  when 
she  heard  there  was  to  be  an  eclipse  of  the  sun 
on  Monday,  the  26th  of  July,  she  wished  they 
could  have  it  the  25th,  as  Sunday  would  be 
so  much  more  convenient  than  wash-day. 

She  had  oilcloth  on  her  kitchen  to  save  the 
floor,  and  oilcloth  mats  to  save  the  oilcloth  ; 
yet  Jerry's  boots  had  to  be  taken  off  in  the 
shed,  and  he  was  required  to  walk  through 
in  his  stocking  feet.  She  blackened  her  stove 
three  times  a  day,  washed  her  dishes  in  the 
woodhouse,  in  order  to  keep  her  sink  clean, 
and  kept  one  pair  of  blinds  open  in  the  sit 
ting-room,  but  spread  newspapers  over  the 
carpet  wherever  the  sun  shone  in. 


206  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

It  was  the  desire  of  Jerry's  heart  to  give 
up  the  fatigues  and  exposures  of  stage- 
driving,  and  "  keep  store,"  but  Mrs.  Todcl 
deemed  it  much  better  for  him  to  be  in  the 
open  air  than  dealing  out  rum  and  molasses 
to  a  roystering  crew.  This  being  her  view 
of  the  case,  it  is  unnecessary  to  state  that 
he  went  on  driving  the  stage. 

"Do  you  wear,  a  flannel  shirt,  Jerry?" 
asked  Pel  Frost  once.  "  I  don'  know,"  he 
replied,  "  ask  Mis'  Todd ;  she  keeps  the 
books." 

"  Women-folks "  (he  used  to  say  to  a 
casual  passenger),  "like  all  other  animiles, 
has  to  be  trained  up  before  they  're  real 
good  comp'ny.  You  have  to  begin  with 
'em  early,  and  begin  as  you  mean  to  hold 
out.  When  they  once  git  in  the  habit  of 
takin'  the  bit  in  their  teeth  and  runnin',  it 's 
too  late  for  you  to  hold  'em  in." 

It  was  only  to  strangers  that  he  aired  his 
convictions  on  the  training  of  "  women 
folks,"  though  for  that  matter  he  might 
safely  have  done  it  even  at  home  ;  for  every 
body  in  Limington  knew  that  it  would  always 
have  been  too  late  to  begin  with  the  Widder 
Bixby,  since,  like  all  the  Stovers  of  Scar- 
boro,  she  had  been  born  with  the  bit  in  her 


THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY.  207 

teeth.  Jerry  had  never  done  anything  he 
wanted  to  since  he  had  married  her,  and  he 
had  n't  really  wanted  to  do  that.  He  had 
been  rather  candid  with  her  on  this  point 
(as  candid  as  a  tender-hearted  and  obliging 
man  can  be  with  a  woman  who  is  determined 
to  marry  him,  and  has  two  good  reasons 
why  she  should  to  every  one  of  his  why  he 
shouldn't),  and  this  may  have  been  the 
reason  for  her  jealousy.  Although  by  her 
superior  force  she  had  overborne  his  visible 
reluctance,  she,  being  a  woman,  or  at  all 
events  of  the  female  gender,  could  never 
quite  forget  that  she  had  done  the  wooing. 

Certainly  his  charms  were  not  of  the  sort 
to  tempt  women  from  the  strict  and  narrow 
path,  yet  the  fact  remained  that  the  Widder 
Bixby  was  jealous,  and  more  than  one  person 
in  Limington  was  aware  of  it. 

Pelatiah,  otherwise  "  Pel "  Frost,  knew 
more  about  the  matter  than  most  other 
folks,  because  he  had  unlimited  time  to 
devote  to  general  culture.  Though  not  yet 
thirty  years  old,  he  was  the  laziest  man  in 
York  County.  (Jabez  Slocum  had  not  then 
established  his  record  ;  and  Jot  Bascom  had 
ruined  his  by  cutting  his  hay  before  it  was 
dead  in  the  summer  of  '49,  always  alluded 


208  THE   MIDNIGHT    CRY. 

to  afterwards  in  Pleasant  River  as  the  year 
when  gold  was  discovered  and  Jot  Bascom 
cut  his  hay.) 

Pel  was  a  general  favorite  in  half  a  dozen 
villages,  where  he  was  the  life  of  the  loafers' 
bench.  An  energetic  loafer  can  attend  prop 
erly  to  one  bench,  but  it  takes  genius  as  well 
as  assiduity  to  do  justice  to  six  of  them. 
His  habits  were  decidedly  convivial,  and  he 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  general 
musters,  drinking  and  carousing  with  the 
other  ne'er-do-weels.  You  may  be  sure  he 
was  no  favorite  of  Mrs.  Todd's ;  and  she 
represented  to  him  all  that  is  most  undesira 
ble  in  womankind,  his  taste  running  decid 
edly  to  rosy,  smiling,  easy-going  ones  who 
had  no  regular  hours  for  meals,  but  could 
have  a  dinner  on  the  table  any  time  in  fifteen 
minutes  after  you  got  there. 

Now,  a  certain  lady  with  a  noticeable  green 
frock  and  a  white  "  drawn-in  "  cape  bonnet 
had  graced  the  Midnight  Cry  on  its  journey 
from  Limington  to  Saco  on  three  occasions 
during  the  month  of  July.  Report  said  that 
she  was  a  stranger  who  had  appeared  at  the 
post-office  in  a  wagon  driven  by  a  small, 
freckled  boy. 

The  first  trip  passed  without  comment ; 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  209 

the  second  provoked  some  discussion ;  on 
the  occasion  of  the  third,  Mrs.  Todd  said  no 
thing,  because  there  seemed  nothing  to  say, 
but  she  felt  so  out-of -sorts  that  she  cut  Jerry's 
hair  close  to  his  head,  though  he  particularly 
fancied  the  thin  fringe  of  curls  at  the  nape 
of  his  neck. 

Pel  Frost  went  over  to  Todd's  one  morn 
ing  to  borrow  an  axe,  and  seized  a  favorable 
opportunity  to  ask  casually,  "  Oh,  Mis'  Todd, 
did  Jerry  find  out  the  name  o'  that  woman 
in  a  green  dress  and  white  bunnit  that  rid  to 
Saco  with  him  last  week  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Todd  's  got  something  better  to  do 
than  get  acquainted  with  his  lady  passen 
gers,"  snapped  Mrs.  Todd,  "  specially  as  they 
always  ride  inside." 

"  I  know  they  gen'ally  do,"  said  Pel, 
shouldering  the  axe  (it  was  for  his  mother's 
use),  "  but  this  one  rides  up  in  front  part  o' 
the  way,  so  I  thought  mebbe  Jerry  'd  find  out 
something  'bout  her.  She  's  han'some  as  a 
picture,  but  she  must  have  a  good  strong  back 
to  make  the  trip  down  V  up  in  one  day." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  effective  or 
more  effectual  than  this  blow  dealt  with  con 
summate  skill.  Having  thus  driven  the  iron 
into  Mrs.  Todd's  soul,  Pel  entertained  his 


210  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

mother  with  an  account  of  the  interview 
while  she  chopped  the  kindling-wood.  He 
had  110  special  end  in  view  when,  lago-like, 
he  dropped  his  first  poisoned  seed  in  Mrs. 
Todd's  fertile  mind,  or,  at  most,  nothing 
worse  than  the  hope  that  matters  might  reach 
an  unendurable  point,  and  Jerry  might  strike 
for  his  altars  and  his  fires.  Jerry  was  a 
man  and  a  brother,  and  petticoat  government 
must  be  discouraged  whenever  and  wherever 
possible,  or  the  world  would  soon  cease  to  be 
a  safe  place  to  live  in.  Pel's  idea  grew  upon 
him  in  the  night  watches,  and  the  next  morn 
ing  he  searched  his  mother's  garret  till  he 
found  a  green  dress  and  a  white  bonnet. 
Putting  them  in  a  basket,  he  walked  out  on 
the  road  a  little  distance  till  he  met  the  stage, 
when,  finding  no  passengers  inside,  he  asked 
Jerry  to  let  him  jump  in  and  "  ride  a  piece." 
Once  within,  he  hastily  donned  the  green 
wrapper  and  tell-tale  headgear,  and,  when 
the  Midnight  Cry  rattled  down  the  stony  hill 
past  the  Todd  house,  Pel  took  good  care  to 
expose  a  large  green  sleeve  and  the  side  of 
a  white  bonnet  at  the  stage  window.  It  was 
easy  enough  to  cram  the  things  back  into  the 
basket,  jump  out,  and  call  a  cordial  thank 
you  to  the  unsuspecting  Jerry.  He  was  re- 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  211 

warded  for  his  ingenuity  and  enterprise  at 
night,  when  he  returned  Mrs.  Todd's  axe,  for 
just  as  he  reached  the  back  door  he  distinctly 
heard  her  say  that  if  she  saw  that  green 
woman  on  the  stage  again,  she  would  knock 
her  off  with  a  broomstick  as  sure  as  she  was 
a  Stover  of  Scarboro.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  equal  to  it.  Her  great-grandmother 
had  been  born  on  a  soil  where  the  broomstick 
is  a  prominent  factor  in  settling  connubial 
differences ;  and  if  it  occurred  to  her  at  this 
juncture,  it  is  a  satisfactory  proof  of  the 
theory  of  atavism. 

Pel  intended  to  see  this  domestic  tragedy 
through  to  the  end,  and  accordingly  took 
another  brief  trip  in  costume  the  very  next 
week,  hoping  to  be  the  witness  of  a  scene  of 
blood  and  carnage.  But  Mrs.  Todd  did  not 
stir  from  her  house,  although  he  was  confi 
dent  she  had  seen  "my  lady  green-sleeves" 
from  her  post  at  the  window.  Puzzled  by 
her  apathy,  and  much  disappointed  in  her 
temper,  he  took  off  the  dress,  and,  climbing 
up  in  front,  rode  to  Moderation,  where  he  re 
ceived  an  urgent  invitation  to  go  over  to  the 
county  fair  at  Gorham.  The  last  idea  was 
always  the  most  captivating  to  Pel,  and  he 
departed  serenely  for  a  stay  of  several  days 


212  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

without  so  much  luggage  as  a  hairbrush. 
His  mother's  best  clothespin  basket,  to  say 
nothing  of  its  contents,  appeared  at  this  junc 
ture  to  be  an  unexpected  incumbrance ;  so 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  he  handed  it  up  to 
Jerry  just  as  the  stage  was  starting,  saying, 
"If  Mis'  Todd  has  a  brash  to-night,  you  can 
clear  yourself  by  showing  her  this  basket,  but 
for  rnassy  sakes  don't  lay  it  on  to  me !  You 
can  stan'  it  better  'n  I  can,  —  you  're  more 
used  to  it !  " 

Jerry  took  the  basket,  and  when  he  was 
well  out  on  the  road  he  looked  inside  and 
saw  a  bright  green  calico  wrapper,  a  white 
cape  bonnet,  a  white  "  fall  veil,"  and  a  pair 
of  white  cotton  gloves.  He  had  ample  time 
for  reflection,  for  it  was  a  hot  day,  and  though 
he  drove  slowly,  the  horses  were  sweating 
at  every  pore.  Pel  Frost,  then,  must  have 
overheard  his  wife's  storm  of  reproaches, 
perhaps  even  her  threats  of  violence.  It 
had  come  to  this,  that  he  was  the  village 
laughing-stock,  a  butt  of  ridicule  at  the 
store  and  tavern. 

Now,  two  years  before  this,  Jerry  Todd 
had  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his  mar 
ried  life  "  put  his  foot  down."  Mrs.  Todd 
had  insisted  on  making  him  a  suit  of  clothes 


THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY.  213 

much  against  his  wishes.  When  finished 
she  put  them  on  him  almost  by  main  force, 
though  his  plaintive  appeals  would  have 
melted  any  but  a  Stover-of-Scarboro  heart. 
The  stuff  was  a  large  plaid,  the  elbows  and 
knees  came  in  the  wrong  places,  the  seat 
was  lined  with  enameled  cloth,  and  the 
sleeves  cut  him  in  the  armholes. 

Mr.  Todd  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  but 
the  pent-up  slavery  of  years  stirred  in  him, 
and,  mounting  to  his  brain,  gave  him  a  mo 
mentary  courage  that  resembled  intoxication. 
He  retired,  took  off  the  suit,  hung  it  over 
his  arm,  and,  stalking  into  the  sitting-room 
in  his  undergarments,  laid  it  on  the  table 
before  his  astonished  spouse,  and,  thumping 
it  dramatically,  said  firmly,  "I  —  will  —  not 
—  wear  —  them  —  clo'es  !  "  whereupon  he 
fell  into  silence  again  and  went  to  bed. 

The  joke  of  the  matter  was,  that,  all 
unknown  to  himself,  he  had  absolutely 
frightened  Mrs.  Todd.  If  only  he  could 
have  realized  the  impressiveness  and  the 
thorough  success  of  his  first  rebellion  !  But 
if  he  had  realized  it  he  could  not  have  re 
peated  it  often,  for  so  much  virtue  went  out 
of  him  on  that  occasion  that  he  felt  hardly 
able  to  drive  the  stage  for  days  afterward. 


214  THE   MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

"  I  shall  have  to  put  down  my  foot  agin," 
he  said  to  himself  on  the  eventful  morning 
when  Pel  presented  him  with  the  basket. 
"  Dern  my  luck,  I  've  got  to  do  it  agin, 
when  I  ain't  hardly  got  over  the  other  time." 
So,  after  an  hour's  plotting  and  planning, 
he  made  some  purchases  in  Biddeford  and 
started  on  his  return  trip.  He  was  very 
low  in  his  mind,  thinking,  if  his  wife  really 
meditated  open  warfare,  she  was  likely  to 
inspect  the  stage  that  night,  but  giving  her 
credit  in  his  inmost  heart  for  too  much 
common  sense  to  use  a  broomstick,  —  a 
woman  with  her  tongue  ! 

The  Midnight  Cry  rattled  on  lumberingly. 
Its  route  had  been  shortened,  and  Mrs.  Todd 
wanted  its  name  changed  to  something  less 
outlandish,  such  as  the  Rising  Sun,  or  the 
Breaking  Dawn,  or  the  High  Noon,  but 
her  idea  met  with  no  votaries ;  it  had  been, 
was,  and  ever  should  be,  the  Midnight  Cry, 
no  matter  what  time  it  set  out  or  got  back. 
It  had  seen  its  best  days,  Jerry  thought, 
and  so  had  he,  for  that  matter.  Yet  he  had 
been  called  "  a  likely  feller  "  when  he  mar 
ried  the  Widder  Bixby,  or  rather  when  she 
married  him.  Well,  the  mischief  was  done  ; 
all  that  remained  was  to  save  a  remnant 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  215 

of  his  self-respect,  and  make  an  occasional 
dash  for  liberty. 

He  did  all  his  errands  with  his  usual  care, 
dropping  a  blue  ribbon  for  Doxy  Morton's 
Sunday  hat,  four  cents'  worth  of  gum-cam 
phor  for  Almira  Berry,  a  spool  of  cotton  for 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  and  a  pair  of  "  galluses  " 
for  Living  Bean.  He  finally  turned  into 
the  "  back-nippin'  "  road  from  Bonny  Eagle 
to  Limington,  and  when  he  was  within 
forty  rods  of  his  own  house  he  stopped  to 
water  his  horses.  If  he  feared  a  scene  he 
had  good  reason,  for  as  the  horses  climbed 
the  crest  of  the  long  hill  the  lady  in  green 
was  by  his  side  on  the  box.  He  looked 
anxiously  ahead,  and  there,  in  a  hedge  of 
young  alder  bushes,  he  saw  something  stir 
ring,  and,  unless  he  was  greatly  mistaken, 
a  birch  broom  lay  on  the  ground  near  the 
hedge. 

Notwithstanding  these  danger  signals, 
Jerry's  arm  encircled  the  plump  waist  of 
the  lady  in  green,  and,  emboldened  by  the 
shades  of  twilight,  his  lips  sought  the  iden 
tical  spot  under  the  white  "  fall  veil  "  where 
her  incendiary  mouth  might  be  supposed  to 
lurk,  quite  "  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and 
spoils."  This  done,  he  put  on  the  brake 


216  THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

and  headed  his  horses  toward  the  fence. 
He  was  none  too  soon,  for  the  Widder 
Bixby,  broom  in  hand,  darted  out  from  the 
alders  and  approached  the  stage  with  ob 
jurgations  which,  had  she  rated  them  at 
their  proper  value,  needed  no  supplement  in 
the  way  of  blows.  Jerry  gave  one  terror- 
stricken  look,  wound  his  reins  round  the 
whipstock,  and,  leaping  from  his  seat,  disap 
peared  behind  a  convenient  tree. 

At  this  moment  of  blind  rage  Mrs.  Todd 
would  have  preferred  to  chastise  both  her 
victims  at  once;  but,  being  robbed  of  one 
by  Jerry's  cowardly  flight,  her  weapon  de 
scended  upon  the  other  with  double  force. 
There  was  no  lack  of  courage  here  at  least. 
Whether  the  lady  in  green  was  borne  up 
by  the  consciousness  of  virtue,  whether  she 
was  too  proud  to  retreat,  or  whatever  may 
have  been  her  animating  reason,  the  blow 
fell,  yet  she  stood  her  ground  and  gave  no 
answering  shriek.  Enraged  as  much  by  her 
rival's  cool  resistance  as  by  her  own  sense 
of  injury,  the  Widder  Bixby  aimed  full  at 
the  bonnet  beneath  which  were  the  charms 
that  had  befuddled  Jerry  Tocld's  brain.  To 
blast  the  fatal  beauty  that  had  captivated 
her  wedded  husband  was  the  Widder  Bixby's 


THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY.  217 

idea,  and  the  broom  descended.  A  shower 
of  seeds  and  pulp,  a  copious  spattering  of 
pumpkin  juice,  and  the  lady  in  green  fell 
resistlessly  into  her  assailant's  arms;  her 
straw  body,  her  wooden  arms  and  pumpkin 
head,  decorating  the  earth  at  her  feet !  Mrs. 
Todd  stared  helplessly  at  the  wreck  she  had 
made,  not  altogether  comprehending  the  ruse 
that  had  led  to  her  discomfiture,  but  fully 
conscious  that  her  empire  was  shaken  to  its 
foundations.  She  glanced  in  every  direc 
tion,  and  then  hurling  the  hateful  green-and- 
white  livery  into  the  stage,  she  gathered  up 
all  traces  of  the  shameful  fray,  and  sweeping 
them  into  her  gingham  apron  ran  into  the 
house  in  a  storm  of  tears  and  baffled  rage. 

Jerry  stayed  behind  the  tree  for  some 
minutes,  and  when  the  coast  was  clear  he 
mounted  the  seat  and  drove  to  the  store  and 
the  stable.  When  he  had  put  up  his  horses 
he  went  into  the  shed,  took  off  his  boots  as 
usual,  but,  despite  all  his  philosophy,  broke 
into  a  cold  sweat  of  terror  as  he  crossed  the 
kitchen  threshold.  "  I  can't  stand  many 
more  of  these  times  when  I  put  my  foot 
down,"  he  thought,  "they're  too  weaken 
ing!" 

But  he  need  not  have  feared.     There  was 


218  THE  MIDNIGHT   CRY. 

a  good  supper  under  the  mosquito  netting 
on  the  table,  and,  most  unusual  luxury,  a 
pot  of  hot  tea.  Mrs.  Todd  had  gone  to  bed 
and  left  him  a  pot  of  tea ! 

Which  was  the  more  eloquent  apology ! 

Jerry  never  referred  to  the  lady  in  green, 
then  or  afterwards ;  he  was  willing  to  let 
well  enough  alone ;  but  whenever  his  spouse 
passed  a  certain  line,  which,  being  a  Stover 
of  Scarboro,  she  was  likely  to  do  about 
once  in  six  months,  he  had  only  to  summon 
his  recreant  courage  and  glance  meaningly 
behind  the  kitchen  door,  where  the  birch 
broom  hung  on  a  nail.  It  was  a  simple 
remedy  to  outward  appearances,  but  made 
his  declining  years  more  comfortable.  I 
can  hardly  believe  that  he  ever  took  Pel 
Frost  into  his  confidence,  but  Pel  certainly 
was  never  more  interesting  to  the  loafers' 
bench  than  when  he  told  the  story  of  the 
eventful  trip  of  the  Midnight  Cry  and  "  the 
breaking  in  of  the  Widder  Bixby." 


-APR-&^J94H*- 


LD21-100m-7,'40(69368) 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


